This particular tart had been selected for me by mother dear, who had entered the Blue Room first, straight-mouthed and firm-handed, in her dull starched clothes and her shadowy pinned-back hair. Yes mommy dearest had fulfilled her maternal duty, as she was ever wont to do, and procured a whore for her stressed and reckless son. Money changed hands discreetly and without fuss. I also found out, and must admit, while in the room with the girl, that she was some relative of mine. I come from a large, entangled, complex family. It's quite possible that I could become involved with a girl only to find that she's a second cousin once removed, or some such fuckin thing. There are innumerable great-uncles and aunts who made multifarious marriages and sired a myriad weans, as is the wont of the Irish. A third cousin? A cousin german? No matter.
In any case, do not suppose my conscience troubled me for a second. I was too drunk to care, all the subtleties of the situation failed to register in my brain. My arm around her and with a few pints inside me... Oh reader, if you could have seen me then! My face I'm sure was unspeakably and vilely contorted, like some vulgar red-faced laird who has had a beef dinner set down in front of him.
My inhibitions had gone out of the window. I stared, enrapt, feebly excited, at her neat, regular thighs set tight together, her plump breasts, her dimpled arms, I groped and squeezed, intent with drunken single-mindedness, I pressed her blue-tinged flesh...
In short I got it out of all proportion, drunk, sorrowful, and stressed as I was, and all on this glum-mouthed and distant-eyed girl with her folded arms and her legs that have to be persuaded to open before her body surrenders, going limp and slack.
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