Athena's Law

“You can’t fuck in the stairwell, mate. It’s a fire hazard.”

“Well, I haven’t started fuckin’ yet, now have I?” I tell the knobhead rent-a-cop who thinks he owns the bloody place. He’s been at me like a rash since the incident in the Mirror Room. It’s not my fault I forgot the safeword; I’ve been knocking back a few, now haven’t I?

“Get a move on, Gramps. You can’t block the way,” the guard says, chuckling at my beer-belly. These Melbourne dickheads got real opinions of themselves. The sign says: Athena’s. No keys. No clothes. No judgments, but apparently, this one thinks he’s above the law.

“Come on, Bazza. I saw some cute couples in the Jungle Room,” Dawn or Lynette or whatever her name is says. The heathen hammock does look fun, but I’m a man of principle, and this is my goddamn retirement present to myself. I drove all the way from Wonthaggi and coughed up three hundred to get in here, so my short-term Sheila and I will swing in every corner of this bloody club if we want to. Who does this twenty-something think he is, telling me where I can and cannot pork around? I’ve been swinging since before he was born. Before his parents were born. I’m fucking Tarzan. I’ve hung so many upside-down pineapples on cruise ship doors that I’ve forgotten what the real bloody fruit looks like.

“Go find some swappers and bring them in here,” I tell my pretty prozzie. “I’m holding ground.”

“Sir, I’m not going to ask you again,” he says. Well, good luck to him if he tries, because I just set my hearing aid to fuck-all.

His nostrils flare. I flip him the bird and square my shoulders. I’ve worked forty-seven years in the mines, and was never management material, so these guns still got some juice in ‘em.

Whatever-her-name-is stumbles back with the dregs of the Jungle Room: a tubby twosome, out-of-breath from the flight, and a skinny bird who looks like she’s going through withdrawal. Not my first choice, but I have a point to prove, so I’ll throw my shrimp on any barbie.

Before I can grab a Trojie from the tubby hubby’s hand, the bouncer bloke charges at me. I thump him in his stupid face, which does little to sort him out and a lot to piss him off.

So, I run.

I shimmy around the occupied beds of the Aphrodite Lounge, throwing a bowl of complementary toys at my pursuer. Everything bounces off his barrel chest and crashes to the floor, vibrating the pleasure pad with a dozen little earthquakes.

Fucker seems hell-bent on tackling me. All because there’s some rubbish rule about not knocking boots in the stairwell. 

“I got a bad back, and the beds in this place are too damn soft,” I plead. 

But it’s too late.

He places me in fluffy, pink handcuffs and chucks me out the service door.

We had to use the stairs.