Theme Parks and Obstacle Courses – a Novel




“Pat, don’t.” A female voice. Strange, then familiar. He turned. It was Natalie. She came towards them. Pat stepped away from where Alan knelt on the wet bitumen, coughing as if he was trying to regurgitate whatever had broken inside him.

The bald man helped him to his feet; both of them ignored Natalie as she passed. She took Pat by the hand and led him away, down towards the bottom of the alley.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“I’ll let you know,” she replied.

They came to a doorway that was just deep enough that the light didn’t penetrate. A few pieces of litter stood out against the dark. She led him in and took off his jacket, laying it on the concrete.

He suddenly felt warm despite the fact he was now standing in just a shirt, as if the friction of his blood against the walls of arteries had increased with his heart rate.

The pulse in his fingers became a sensation as his hands descended onto her hair. She knelt down on his jacket, her face receding into the darkness. There was a brief tinkling of belt against button-fly before her mouth rolled over his cock.

Pat had never been much for blow-jobs. They had made him feel lonely and his mind would wander. Then he felt paranoid he wouldn’t be able to come and the girl would wonder what the hell was wrong with him or her or both.

He was amazed by what a different touch could ignite in his skin. Slowly and inexorably, Natalie pushed in towards a centre no woman had previously been able to find.

His body responded, the message rolling down his spine and gathering in his guts before she dragged it out, her rhythm mercilessly constant as his body bucked and fought underneath it like a victim.


The next day, Natalie stood at the kerb with her handbag in front of her, clutching it by the strap. She wore blue jeans with heels and a long-sleeved black turtleneck, her long blonde hair up in a pony-tail.

Pat slowed the car, pulling up alongside her. He felt a confluence of panic and pleasure; she was even more beautiful than he remembered. He got out and rounded the bonnet to open the passenger door.

“Whose car?” she asked.

“Johnny’s.” He was going to tell her it was his own, but then thought the better of it. She may have seen it the other night when she appeared like an angel to deliver the heavenly blow-job.

If she remembered, she’d come to suspect that Pat was a liar. And then she’d be suspicious about everything. “He’s lent it to me for the night.”

“Good friend.”

“He is.”

Nat slid into the cream-white bucket seat and he shut the door for her, careful not to close it on her leg.

“Nice car,” she said, clicking a fingernail against the steering wheel. Pat turned the key and the ignition caught with a sound like a 400-pound baritone clearing his throat. He slid the shift into drive and pulled back onto the road.

Nat seemed happy; she wore her wraparound designer sunglasses and the early afternoon sun glinted off their gold hinges. Pat felt like a deep-sea diver; the pressure on his chest slowly increased until he had to pull over to the side of the road.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I’m really hot,” he replied. His hairline was damp and his t-shirt had begun sticking to his skin. He opened the door and, standing on the shoulder of the road, felt a mercifully cool breeze on his chest.

He pulled off his denim jacket and slung it onto the back seat, whipping it past Nat’s head and nearly catching her with the end of it. It was so close the rivets cracked against the head-rest.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, bending down.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m a bit nervous.”


“I don’t know… confined space, beautiful woman…”

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