High HornMature

He strained his eyes in an attempt to focus on his wrist but it was a struggle – at a guess around three hours had passed in the blink of an ecstatic eye. The club was a big open space with a cold industrial feel and the dance floor spinned round him like a whirlwind of exposed breezeblock and dull metal banisters. The throbbing base line wanking his spine would release its grip soon and lights would expose those who had sought to change themselves in the safety of darkness. Taking in the scene around him he prepared to slip into his usual comedown from wherever he had been and suspected the high horn was about to consume him.

He considered himself to be neither attractive nor ugly by the admittedly low standards back home and his fleshy Glaswegian frame and pasty skin wouldn’t have got him much in the way of female attraction - without a substantive sprinkling of personality. His arrival alone in a new city on the other side of the world only yesterday had been motivated partly by a desire to travel before his 30th birthday (in 4 months) and also as a result of bumping into an old school friend last year. The friend admittedly was likely to be classed higher than he in the food chain of attractiveness if there were such a thing - but nonetheless he was adamant that the woman he had encountered on his travels in South America (and in particular those in Santiago Chile) were disproportionately enthused by the sight of any European non Latino type men.

Now that he had fully arrived back in the here and now from the luxurious numbness of his pill and booze induced haze the immediate and primal necessity was one of fast and urgent sex. He had no preference between sex of a casual nature or even black tie but it had to be tonight. The likely language barrier removed the safety net of awkward small talk and clumsy exchanges of phone numbers were totally out of the question. He required a signature on the line which is dotted and he required it tonight - there would be no contractual cooling off period either.

His body automatically moved into predator mode beneath him and suddenly the club opened up into the wide green expanse of a far away savannah at dusk. As the sun hovered gently vibrating on the cusp of the stretched horizon he knew he may not be the only hunter in the grass and began to focus on the area around him. Unfortunately those within swiping distance were either with partners, in packs or too alert and somehow aware of his presence and the associated dangers - ready to flee their fate in a heartbeat. Not for them an early morning stranger fuck followed by a restless sleep and then the inevitability of being discarded, thrown into a waste bin like a razor full of hair - no longer of any use.

It was then that he saw it in a shadowy crevice to his right its elbow leaning on a speaker. It looked to be sufficiently drunk but still able to stand and had a demeneaour he hoped might have an air of post argument within it. It was older but still clung on to its youthful exuberance in a sad and desperate kind of way and seemed to be almost invisible to everyone apart from him. It had an indigenous look with shoulder length wayward brown hair framing an oval face of substantive cheekbones and black marble eyes. The smudged mascara and cherry red lips accentuated strangeness against the backdrop of younger women who avoided makeup in such sweatily pointless conditions.

It was crucial he beat the lights and get out in the cover of darkness. There should be no opportunity to reconsider compliance and the inevitable stares could induce a cognizant jerk - so he made his move quickly. Like an instinctive hunter he moved through the elbows and shoulders between them balancing the need for both urgency and stealth. Within a flash he was there and it seemed startled then he was relieved when that initial look quickly faded into something between pleasant surprise and curbed enthusiasm. The smile slowly opened up a genetic window into Manco Capac’s legendary dynasty but the neon purpleised teeth seemed to veil a somewhat sinister look. This produced a sudden stab of fear in his chest as he now proceeded with caution into unfamiliar territory. Something didn’t smell right. The savannahs of Santiago never give up a meal without so much as a Fandango and if it does there is normally a good reason. He knew then that he was the only one who had taken the scent and there would be no need to chase this ageing Impala, no need to swipe at the fishnet ankles to knock them off balance. He was worried by the lyre shaped high horns and felt there may be something strangely familiar to him and yet to be revealed under the surface. One thing he knew for sure - either way - the hunt was over

The End

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