Take me up to Monto (standard:drama, 1927 words)
Author: Salesie	Added: Oct 10 2005	Views/Reads: 3226/2007	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
There's a first time in every young man's life...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“What's so funny about Beaver Street?” asks George. 

“Jesus Christ, give me bleedin' strength,” cries Smudger, “I know it's
the twentieth bleedin' century, nineteen bleedin' fourteen and all 
that, but do you think the council's put up a bleedin' signpost to 
point us in the right direction, you bleedin' thick dozy shite?” 

“I'll tell you what's so funny about Beaver Street, my new and innocent
little mucker,” says Dusty as he places an arm around George's 
shoulder. “It's because beaver is what we've come down here for, and 
down there is where we're going to find it. Waiting for us at number 
twenty-bloody-two Beaver Street, is as much beaver as we can bloody 
well handle.” 

- 

Dusty and Smudger discovered Clancy's not long after they'd arrived in
Dublin, and for the past fourteen months they'd been regular travellers 
down the side passage of number twenty-two Beaver Street. 

As they approach the back door it opens and a gable-end of a man stands
in their way, but when recognising Dusty and Smudger he's only too 
happy to allow all four inside. 

Clancy's bordello is a whole row of terraced houses knocked into one,
providing one large social area backed by a warren of interconnected 
chambers. And, to his surprise, George finds himself inside one massive 
barroom. At the far end of this illicit taproom, through the tobacco's 
leaden haze, he sees two soldiers leaning on a makeshift bar, drinking 
beer and laughing at two of their comrades' clumsy efforts at dancing 
with two young girls. All along the back wall are tables and stools - 
soldiers occupy most of them, but a couple of sailors and a civilian 
are playing cards at one of the tables. The rest heartily belt out a 
song he doesn't recognise, as an old man encourages their raucous 
serenade by playing something that only just passes as a tune on an 
even older piano in the corner. 

His eyes become transfixed on two plump women, skilfully weaving in and
out of the tables with trays full of drinks and empty glasses. As they 
go about their work, they laugh out loud when members of the inebriated 
choir grasp at their overgenerous breasts and backsides. 

Amazing, thinks George, just bloody amazing! They're constantly moving,
bringing drinks from the bar, collecting money, handing out change, 
picking up empties, and having their tits and arses felt at the same 
time. But they never spill a drop of beer or smash a glass. I wonder 
what they do for an encore? 

“See, everything we need's right here,” says Dusty, as he heads for the
only vacant table. “We're all set for the night.” 

As Smudger orders four pints, George's mind counters his excitement -
been in bars before, back in Pontefract near the training camp, but 
never seen anything like this. I've bragged about sex as much as the 
rest, but bragging's one thing ... 

“...Here you are, Smudger darling,” says one of the two plump women as
she places four pints onto their table. “That'll be a bob please.” 

Smudger nearly chokes on his first sip, “A bob? A bleedin' bob for four
pints?” he yells, “Christ, Phyllis, that's threpence a bleedin' pint, 
it was only tuppence ha'penny last bleedin' week?” 

“Pay the woman, you tight sod,” says Dusty as he fondles Phyllis' left
breast. “They told us a month since it was going up.” 

“I know, but not a bleedin' ha'penny a pint, for Christ sake, I expected
a farthing not a bleedin' ha'penny.” 

“Do you ever stop bloody moaning? Pay the woman and lets get pissed.”
Smudger places a shilling into her hand, “Keep the bleedin' change.” 

“Thanks for nothing, arsehole,” she pushes Dusty's hand away as her
smile disappears - it soon returns as she gets to the next table. 

“One of these days, Smudger, I'm going to punch your bloody brains out,
why'd you have to upset Phyllis? It's not her fault. She'll be slow at 
serving us all bloody night now.” 

“I just begrudge paying threpence for a bleedin' pint. Oh all right,
everybody put tuppence on the bleedin' table and I'll go over and slip 
it in her hand, that'll bring her round.” 

They all throw two pennies into the middle of the table. Smudger scoops
them up and chases after Phyllis. She kisses him as if he were her long 
lost lover when he slips the money into her hand while grabbing a 
handful of arse. 

“Right, a round apiece, then a shag, then another round apiece,” says
Dusty, lifting his pint, “I hope you two can keep up with the 
professionals?” 

“Don't worry about us two,” yells Finchy. “We can drink and shag with
the best of ‘em, can't we, George?” 

“We're the best – at drinking that, and using that,” shouts George,
pointing to his beer and grabbing his crotch in quick succession. 

- 

As their fourth pint of the night lands on the table, George's mind once
again works overtime; I've fifteen bloody minutes, at the most, to come 
up with a plan. Jesus, I want a shag, Christ knows I do, but not like 
this; the place and the women are just too much. Bloody hell, if I 
can't think of anything, I'll have to go through with it, I can't back 
out in front of me mates; they'll be merciless, they'll tear me to 
bloody bits. 

“Come on, sup up. It's time for a ride, then some more ale,” Dusty
yells. 

“Er, there's plenty of time,” says George as the others down their
pints. 

“No there's bleedin' not,” snaps Smudger, “I'm bleedin' busting for it.”


“I've, er, er – I need a piss,” says George. 

“Another one?” asks Finchy; “You only went five minutes since.” 

“No I didn't!” 

“Yes you bleedin well did,” laughs Smudger. 

“It's this ale, it must be bad, must be causing me to piss more.” 

“Causing you to bleedin' piss more?...Hey, lads, he's a virgin...look at
his bleedin' face, he's bleedin' shitting himself.” 

“No, I'm bloody well not. I've had more shags than you've had...” 

“...You're right, Smudge,” Dusty yells. “He's a bloody virgin, quick
grab him, lads!” 

“Get off me, you bastards,” screams George. 

Ignoring his struggles and protests, they raise him shoulder high before
carrying him through the cheering crowd to a door at the rear of the 
barroom, singing, “Georgie is a virgin,” as they go. 

- 

George tries in vain to kick his assailants as they thrust him through
the portal of one of the many boudoirs, slamming the door behind him. 

In panic, he tries to turn the knob, but his mates hold it shut on the
far side. 

“Bastards!” he hisses. 

“Come on, darling, hurry up,” a female voice says from behind. “Time's
bloody money, you know.” 

He turns, saying the Regimental motto, Cede Nullis – Yield to None, over
and over in his head. 

At least a decade older than his eighteen years, she lies on the bed in
her underwear, “My name's Molly, and I just said time's money, so 
bloody well get on with it.” 

Fumbling with his fly in response to her command, he stands rooted to
the spot just inside the door. The buttons refuse to give, his hands 
aren't his own, “I can't undo my flies,” he whispers, apologetically, 
then looks away, staring in stony silence at anything in the room but 
her. 

His whole body shakes as he senses her climb off the bed and walk slowly
towards him - his instinct is to run, but where to? Cede Nullis, Cede 
Nullis, Cede... he chants, over and over, under his breath. 

Taking him gently by the hand, Molly leads him to the bed, and places
him on his back, “Long time since I had a virgin,” she says over and 
over in a low trembling voice as she first undresses him, then strokes 
and plays with his youthful innocence before climbing onto the bed to 
join him. 

- 

Her first lesson finishes much too soon for both of them, but now he
knows what all the fuss is about, he can't keep away from Molly for the 
next couple of weeks. Until that is; he sails for France with his 
Regiment, to face the Kaiser's hordes. 

- 

© John Sales 2004 


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