The Lost Boys

By Siddy Bennett

When I first enter his bedroom, drunk and wrinkly clean from my first ever Denver hot tub party, I am a little worried he is a pervert, or even worse, a serial killer.  It is a dark hole, deep underground in the basement of a decayed desert church in the heart of America; the kind of place that would inspire Quentin Tarantino to write his next movie.  

Moments earlier we had stood as two strangers, naked, washing the chlorine from our bodies in a dirty claustrophobic shower that felt more like an environmental health hazard. I winced as I stepped out onto the mouldy linoleum, wishing I hadn’t left my flip flops outside.

He’d slipped me into a white towelled dressing gown and taken my hand, leading me in a lusty intoxicated trance; winding and winding through a series of underground cavernous rooms filled with endless junk. He was Count Dracula and I was a naive virgin. Well, in my head I was. The crumbling basement walls were painted a gruesome deep red, reminiscent of a smack house I once accidentally partied in with my friend Claire. Suppressing the potential danger, I focused on the fact his subterraneum labyrinth was actually a cooling escape from Colorado’s dusty midsummer heat.

Eventually the freaky maze led us to a small and dank room, where I now stand with mixed emotions of arousal and fear. The only thing in the chamber is a dark purple satin covered four poster bed; as proud as it is grotesque. We are still for a moment while I take in the monstrosity and wonder… Have I been lured into a murder sex dungeon? Am I Lizbet Salander?  Am I safe? Is the towel dressing gown a costume for some kind of sick cult? Will I ever see the light of day again? 

He interjects my panic and smiles lovingly at his bed, “I made this myself”, he coos with pride. His accent is hard to pin-point, a mixture of deep south and middle America. He is leaning against the doorpost with a cigarette in his mouth. Hot. He reminds me of James Dean.  I snap out of my murderous daydream and catch his eyes. They are a rich chestnut brown and are currently looking at me with a hint of humour, which makes me relax a little. I smile back, and quickly try to look sexy through my fear; the perfect heroine. 

To be honest, I am actually pretty impressed with the craftwork of this bed. It bears three mattresses that tower up as high as my boobs, reminding me of The Princess and The Pea. It looks like it is going to be a struggle to clamber on to. How on earth will I do this with grace? Dyspraxia and intoxication are so often my enemies.  

He has balanced the mattresses on several upturned milk bottle crates, creating a haphazard makeshift bed base. This doesn’t put me off, I actually commend this kind of innovation; It reminds me of building dens when I was a scrappy child, using any materials I could get my hands on to create a magnificent fortress.  

“This is coooool,” I blurt out, genuinely admiring it while tracing my finger along the scrapyard timber frame.  I move closer towards him, pretending I'm Morticia Adams, and he is my Gomez.  “It is a bed fit for a king,” I whisper out loud without thinking. What the hell, did I actually just say that? I begin to giggle, laughing at my own absurdity, and thankfully he laughs with me while pulling off his t-shirt revealing his muscular tanned chest. Fuck yes. 

He has long scruffy brown hair down to the middle of his waist. I have never been with a guy with long hair, in fact, it’s always kinda creeped me out, but weirdly, right now, I'm really really into it.  In fact I like it so much that I am now questioning why any man ever cuts his hair? Suddenly cutting one's hair seems rather unnatural. He looks wild like a pirate or a warrior, ooh yes, a warrior, he is morphing from Gomez into the Dothraki king and I am Khalisi.

The curtains and bedsheets are those of a budget porno; silky and vile. I manage to climb up onto his cherished bed without too many hiccups thank god. He is still in the doorway, still smoking, still looking at me. I nervously smooth my hands along the slippery seedy bedsheets. I mean, they kinda feel nice on my skin. Do I hate them or do I love them? I honestly can’t tell. Like his long hair, I am questioning everything I once believed to be true. I run my hand over them again, and internally shrug. Feels good.  Fuck it, might as well get into it now. 

He  moves towards me and our faces are so close I can feel the warmth of his sun kissed skin. I am kneeling on his extremely bouncy and precarious bed; trying to remain still, but wobbling around like a jelly on a plate. He is standing in front of me, and places his hands on my shoulders, probably trying to help stabilise me. The aubergine glistening sheets drape around us like a film set, and I am inclined to burst into a risque number from The Rocky Horror Picture show. In my head I start to sing, “touch touch touch touch me…. I wanna be dirrrrty, thrill me chill me fulfill me, creature of the nightttt..” It soothes me. Should I just sing it out loud right now for comedy value? Like really go for it?  No, I will keep the mood sexy and hot….Should I though? 

Sensing my mind drifting, he brushes the hair from my face sending a shiver down my spine. He tries to run his fingers through my tangled bleached haystack of a barnet, but it’s physically impossible, so he gives up and sharply pulls my head towards him and kisses me.  

Startled by the jolt, another quick flicker of panic and exhilaration rises within me as I wonder for the seventh time if I am going to get out of here unharmed.  We begin to make out, but my mind still can’t relax. Perhaps I am living a little too close to the knifes edge.  Nobody actually knows I am here; thousands of miles from home in a creepy American catacomb. If I ran, would I even be able to find my way out? Was I going to be a human sacrifice? Were the other long haired shirtless vampires from the jacuzzi party AKA  his friends, going to appear and tie me to the corners of the bed and drain my blood from my body. Will they party in my remains in the hot tub? 

Thankfully; they never arrive.  What occurs is a heated explosive vampiric sex scene which honestly could have been used in an episode of True Blood. Afterwards, I am astounded; mostly in shock that I am truly enjoying this debauchery. I lie with my head on his chest, staring at the silky material ceiling with a new found fondness, he is smoking again, we are both relaxed.  I think about the night before: Who is this creature whose bed I am sharing?  All I really knew about him was that he was the leader of a strange group of beings I'd never encountered before; Peddicabbers. 

Now, the peddicabbers are a rare and interesting breed. They are a bit like rock and roll tuk-tuk drivers. Stoners who circle you like a bird of prey on their giant shiny tricycles, asking if you want a ride. They are funny and cheeky, constantly high, drunk, shirtless and wild; all of them with long hair flowing as free as their minds. Last night I partied with a load of them, and they reminded me of The Lost Boys from the 1980s vampire movie. They seemed kinda dangerous, like they had no limits. Some of them were chilled and kind-hearted, some of them actually worryingly insane; the kind of people that slip through the cracks of society and are somehow allowed to roam free. Most of them were musicians. They told me they slept all day and rose in the evening to work, gig and party. Vampires; and their coven; an abandoned church that I am currently in the basement of. 

“So tell me about peddicabbing,” I say, taking a drag of his cigarette; Smoking in bed after sex is always a high point for me. I am now Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, well kind of.  Instead of a classy whiskey, I reach for a tin of warm beer and crack it open. 

“We just take money off dumb people,” he says, smiling. My explosive witch cackle booms louder than I expected.

“Seriously, we can make hundreds of dollars a night from the festivals and ball games downtown.'' He pauses and takes another toke, “Loads of rich people wind up here alone on business trips and they really wanna party, so they pay us to hang out with them. They take us to the titty bars and give us like 300 dollars to stay with them, and cover our drinks.”

“WOW, your fucking kidding me, that is insane. So people pay you to be their friends? You guys are like escorts!?” I laugh. 

He laughs with me, and adds “Hey, It’s a pirate's life”. 

“What does that mean?” I squeal with pure joy. I knew he was a pirate. 

“It's the peddicabbers motto, if we see something we like, we’ll do it, or take it.”

“What like thieves?” I say, now wondering if I am in the center of a criminal smuggling ring.  

“No” he smiles, “I spent enough time in jail as a kid to learn that lesson.” 

Hot. There is nothing sexier to me than a convict.

“You were in jail...?” I am hooked. 

“Oh yeah, I spent most of my teenage years in juvie... “

Holy fucking shit. I love him. He is now Ryan from the OC. I want to expand on this story but I proceed with caution.

“So if you are not a thief, what do you mean? What do you take?” 

“Whatever we want, opportunity I guess," he says with satisfaction. He offers an example; "Like tomorrow we are gonna go get a boat.”

“What kind of boat?” I imagine us as Jack and Rose dancing under decks. 

“A huge speed boat; this random dude’s giving it away for free, so we’re gonna go get it, do it up then take it up to the lakes.”

“Fuck, thats amazing. I love boats, I used to live on a giant sea ship one when I was a kid,” -a fact I always try to get into conversations. “Actually, my dad told me we were pirates and I believed it for years.”  

“No way, that's awesome, you’re a pirate too,” he winks and wraps his arm closer around me. I can smell the sweat on his skin and it’s agreeable. God bless pheromones. 

“Don’t you need a license to sail on the lakes?”  

 “They have to catch us first.”  His eyes are becoming less mysterious and more cheeky by the minute. 

“I guess nobody is really patrolling the Rocky Mountains.” I sigh and think of tiny England and it’s endless rules. “You can’t get away with anything like that in England.”

I am thinking of my family's constant struggle to live freely as hippies in the Tory oppressed 90’s. I let him into my thoughts, even though they have completely changed direction:  “When I was a kid we used to get taken out of school and go live on road protest camps. The government was trying to cut down ancient woodland, so we used to sit in the trees and refuse to come down. My mum once got arrested for lying in the middle of the motorway dressed in a skeleton mask.” I say with pride. I was really going off topic. 

“Your mom sounds cool”

“She is a true renegade.” I sigh, sad that I no longer feel like one. 

He notices. “You should just quit your job and join us.” 

Join us? Um Vampire alert. 

“Could I?? I mean surely they’d catch me? I’d be here illegally.”  I’m silent for a moment trying to genuinely work out if I can leave corporate hell and become a pedicabber. 

“Nah, you can just live at the church and put on an American accent, nobody would catch yah.”

I laugh. “What like this,”...  I try my best valley girl accent: “I’m going to the maaaall to get a bikini.” 

“There yah go.” He laughs and continues his point  “Seriously though, I told the Government I have 7 kids to look after so I didn't have to pay my degree back, and nobody has ever checked up on me. This country is run by idiots.”  

“What the fuck, that’s amazing!” I laugh with him. It does seem like people just slip under the radar here.

I love his spirit and now all I can think about is making out with him and going on his boat. 

Reading my thoughts he adds: “Hey, so we’re thinking of getting a wakeboard and tying it to the back of the boat to try and surf it, we’ll take some beers and camp up there for a few days, you should come.”

“When are you going?” I wince, thinking of my ever piling work load. 

“We’ll head out as soon as the boat is ready.”

His freewheeling lifestyle meant he could go whenever he wanted. I was envious. My own corporate shackles were digging so far into my ankles they were giving me sores.

He yawns and kisses my head. “You're about the prettiest little lady I have ever seen,” he whispers in his James Dean voice. I smile and my cautious heart melts a little.

Soon he falls asleep and I lie awake staring at my southern gothic surroundings. There is a tiny window near the ceiling which is just reaching ground level. It has bars over it and reminds me of a prison cell. I wonder if he likes this room because of his years in juvenile detention. Surely not... This person does not seem institutionalised. The window meanly dribbles light in and I can now hear the birds beginning to sing, it must be morning. I’m exhausted but wired. How have I ended up here? I realise now I am safe. I could leave, but I don't really want to. I have been lonely, and for the first time in a long time I feel the joy of adventure and human connection. I throw back the covers because he has kept the heating on full blast even though we are in a desert. I once again wonder if he is supernatural. Seriously, does his blood run cold?

He leaves the window open so that his cat, “Princess Chocolate Chip” is able to jump in and out as she pleases. Another roaming creature of the night, she enters and leaves every twenty minutes or so and I can’t help thinking she has it in for me. Animals usually love me, but she keeps landing perfectly on my head, scaring the living shit out of me. I drift in and out of consciousness convinced she is ridiculing me.