Ten Storey Love Song Read Online Free PDF

the girls steal the boys’ football, the boys chase the girls, they all fall over in the clover, and they all laugh their heads off with funny terrapin expressions. The kids don’t care that the playing field’s all dusty and grubby and pooey, or that they’re not getting orgasms. Seven-year-olds don’t even know what an orgasm is, and they seem to be having a pretty fun time without one. Ellen wishes she was that age again, rolling around getting muddy in a flowery dress and hating boys and making fun out of dollies and twigs and old tyres, not drugs or booze or boys’ limbs. Ellen sighs, all cosy in her jammies but her head hurts from all the weird thinking, or is it just a hangover? Last night was another shitty shag with Johnnie (really drunk, Johnnie spurted his load while Ellen was trying to insert him up her mousetrap twat), and she smothers her head in the sweaty pillows to the sound of cackling little lasses. Her brain’s a puddle of piss, slightly wishing she hated Johnnie so they could go their separate ways but she doesn’t. It’s the fact that she otherwise gets on so well with Johnnie she doesn’t have the heart to keep telling him he’s a failure in bed. She doesn’t want to split up with him just because he’s a bad lay, but then again she doesn’t want a split up her cunt every time she goes to bed with him. It’s quite sad because obviously Johnnie knows he gives her very little pleasure, but his only frame of reference is pornography and over time he’s learnt to shag exactly like the clueless misogynistic bastards in those films. And yet somehow they always make the girls squirt! Johnnie’s confused, and more often than not he can be seen with a very sad head. He’s a lot less talkative nowadays, so Ellen’s glad she’s got Pamela and Mandy and the rest of the gang upstairs to knock around with and have a laugh with. There’s a party tonight in 6D, and Johnnie gave her a tenner in consolation for the bad sex. Bless him. She starts getting ready, co-ordinating her outfit with the pink sunset outside and feeling a bit less negative. She sniffs and slides on a rosy Umbro T-shirt with tights and denim miniskirt, and she goes overboard with the make-up because she thinks some boys might be there tonight. She gets a weird kick out of boys drooling over her, like it confirms her good-lookingness or something. She doesn’t think she’s insecure; she just loves to be loved. She imagines herself as a free spirit, always swanning around the halls and walls of Peach House like it’s the Chelsea Hotel in the sixties and she’s Nico and she knows where all the parties are. Sometimes she goes to Mandy’s, the stick-thin speed-freak who’s always got something crap to tell you. Sometimes she goes to Angelo’s, the hunky Sardinian who welcomes anyone as long as they’ve got booze or big boobs. Sometimes she goes to Pamela’s if her mam and dad’s away, the nursery worker with a permanently glazed expression on her face. Sometimes she goes to Bobby the Artist’s, if he’s not too fucked to open the door or talking to the wallpaper. It feels like a great place to be, and Ellen draws herself a smile out of pink lip-gloss. She runs the straighteners through her creamy waterfall hair, then whacks on a bit of CK Be and gazes at herself in the mirror plastered with grubby photos of friends and exes. Ellen’s been living at Johnnie’s for about three months, and nowadays the footy posters have been replaced with girly items such as stretch mirror, cuddly bunnies, photographs of people she used to snog and shag. She stays there rent free and she loves getting waited on hand and foot – Johnnie gives her anything she wants, from Americano pizzas to MDMA tablets, plus she’s guaranteed £ 88.10 in her Halifax every fortnight. It’s so class being on the dole, Ellen just loves drifting through her life like a princess on a throne carried about by court jesters or whoever. She laughs at that image