Citysong and other plays (NHB Modern Plays) by Dylan Coburn Gray

Author:Dylan Coburn Gray [Gray, Dylan Coburn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788501880
Publisher: Nick Hern Books

A. Man’s best friend: Google Chrome Incognito.

Nothing sweeter than a guaranteed pornless history, my dick the victor who writes it and it writes mysteries. You’ll never know what went down – oh ho – and fuck now I’m thinking about Agatha Christie. Instant boner-kill.

Spankwire, thank you, welcome distraction. Get some gentle action going, up and down and up and down to the bottom of the page where it says hey, April O’Neill? Good choice, we’re feeling that, but yer outta luck bub. Two vids, both old, try Pornhub.

A pop-up offers a top-up on my penis, quick! Hop up on the table and shazoom! Ladies can’t resist your mister’s va-va-voom. They’ll jump for that Topman-chinos-lump when they spy with an admiring little eye a gee-busting hump-snake like a lesser man’s thigh. Swoon. Mr Tackle is knee-deep in poon.

Maybe not, thanks. Happy with what I got, thanks. No illusions, me, about being – (Exaggeratedly masculine voice.) a virile Rambo what shot tanks in some war. Nah, I’m a weedy cunt from Dublin 4, gifted only with a mortally offensive tongue and not the type to finish fights the barbed fucker’s begun.

Finish up with my modest manbits. Filthiest of habits, or healthy self-love-affair? Best not ask my socks. Dress with considerable care because my lack of muscle notwithstanding my branding does what hustle does for hunks. I present an uncompromising cynicism to the world, ciggy in hand, smoke rising, two fingers unfurled. Girls are intrigued, flattered by small attentions: the simple lack of the typical verbal batterings means they might be in my league. In there like swimwear. Yes, it’s a play on insecurity; yes, treat ’em mean keep ’em keen; but my ability to get a hand up a dress at Alchemy is unmatched by the virtuous. True love’s path ever did run tortuous, hatcheted through briars or hazarded with liars or both. Quoth this maven: the fires of passion will swallow you whole. Safer to safeguard the ol’ ticker and just get yer – if you follow – hole.

Unless it’s – well. Fucking hell, the merest mention of my dearest Laura cranks the fucking tension for me because she’s a sight for sore eyes at the worst of times and at her best she’s a burst of pure – Jesus, yeah. If love is a sure and willful self-abnegation, Laura’s a sexy form of zen meditation: inducing intimations of the transcendent in men when she smiles. Her lines are fine enough for double-takes, often double-taken for a model and who’s to say you’re mistaken? She could would should be. So it’s easy to think she’s beautiful because she’s blonde, thin, shape of a violin to fucking boot. Blah blah blah, dutifully capitulating to what society deems attractive, that shit’s just haters hating, argument from those lacking the lack that Laura’s rack alone is lacking. Need a minute for that one? I’ll spend it in contemplation, because that lackless rack is crack-a-lacking.

Am I coming across laddish, big baddish wolf hoping to eat her? In touch with my inner neanderthal, my soul wears a wifebeater? (Exaggeratedly masculine voice.

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