MONOLOGUE: Love in Dark Corners

by Claire Balfour

Setting:       bare stage, a nightclub in England with faint dance music in the background

Time:           present, at night

Character:   MARK, British, mid 30s

(Mark is holding a nearly finished pint of lager.)


(Looks around the club) So this is your first time here, eh?  Listen mate, you’ve not missed much, it’s same old trash here every week; I don’t even know why I bother to keep coming back.  Honestly, it’s like a car boot sale here sometimes, lots of old trash looking to give themselves away, hoping to be re-cycled by a new owner who might revive them for a few more hours of use.

Grab-a-granny night, my mate Adrian calls it—grab-a-fanny is more what I’m after but if I grabbed some of their fannies I think it’s be aiming half way down their thighs with the amount of mileage they’ve put their gear box through.

You see the problem with this place is, is that the young ones don’t get here till later on cos they’re out doing a pub crawl through the town first, but this lot… (points out to the crowd with distain), they come here early to try to get first pickings, but what they don’t realise is that we leave them til last, because they’re the ‘bottom trawlers’ (pauses as he ‘listens’).  Oh you don’t know what bottom trawlers are?

You know those fish that skulk along the bottom of the fish tank picking up the rubbish that the other fish leave behind?  Well, that’s them, and if you haven’t managed to grab-a-fanny earlier in the night all that’s left are these desperate haggard ones at the end, pissed out their heads, with their make-up sweated down their face looking like Alice Cooper after a gig, and stinking of cheap fags and booze, but I tell you, they are gagging to give it away.  They’ll take anything they can get at 2am, like the bottom trawlers (looks around in disgust at people ‘walking by’)

I know it might seem a bit desperate to come here but where else is there to go?  I did go to a gay club once, not for the chocolate doughnut jabbers of course, fuck that, no I’m no poof, no, it was to cast my net a bit wider and see if I could lure some of the lovely ladies that go to those places into a false sense of security, cos you see, you get those fag-hags that hang out in the poof clubs, you know, the straight girls who like hanging out with the queers?

Now, the trick is, you make them think that you’re one of them (he makes his hand goes limp) and then they let you buy them drinks, and then you get to do some dirty dancing with them, even snog some of them, and then once they feel comfortable with you, you tell them that you’re straight and by that time they’re too pissed to care, and you’re in there.

But of course there’s the ones that claim they’re bisexual or bi-curious or whatever, but you need to be sober enough to make sure you don’t get caught out with one of those fucking trannies, eh, because some of them can look like pretty hot women up top but then you get FUBARed when you go below for a finger and you end up with an unexpected handful cos they’ve got bigger balls than you!  Fuck that!  It’s just disgusting.

But if you do feel brave enough to go and risk a homo club mate, and you go into a club where there’s loads of dykes—I tell you, it can be soul destroying.  Obviously I’m not talking about the ones that look like men, but those lipstick lesbian ones—the hot girls that like a bit of mutual bean flicking, it really is sickening, no I don’t mean them doing that cos I’d be more than happy to help them out, or just watch even, but when they’re just into each other, no blokes allowed, it really is depressing, it’s like being parched with thirst and sitting in a boat in the middle of the ocean.  Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.

Yeah but I come here most Friday nights—you get the after-work crowd, you know?  They’ve come straight from the office so they’re boozing early and usually fuelled on just a packet of crisps so they’re well hammered by the time they get here so they’re up for nearly anything.  It’s fucking brilliant.

And they’re usually too pissed to notice or to even care about the ring (he shows his wedding band).  I used to take it off before I got here, but one night after a few too many I forgot to take it off and I still managed to score twice in one night!  Once in the toilets—gents, not ladies—and I got a round of applause from the boys in the bogs once I’d finished the job, nice one.  And then again at the end of the night up the alleyway where the taxis park.  But she’d gone down on me, and once I’d made my deposit into her mouth, she spewed all over my shoes, selfish bitch.  I had to tell the wife it was my mate Adrian who’d had too much and he’d thrown up on me when I was trying to get him into a taxi.  (Tuts, shaking his head seriously) I hate lying.

Anyway, there’s Adrian coming back with the pints, and I’ve just spotted a hen’s party come through those doors.  There is a God after all.  You coming?

copyright © 2010 Claire Balfour. All rights reserved.

Claire Balfour is a Scottish actress living in New Zealand and has taken to writing plays rather than appearing in them.  This is an excerpt from a play she is currently writing about infidelity called Love in Dark Corners.

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