Consisting of Part One, Two, and Three
“Mr Litt?” she said, shimmering in her gorgeous dress that she’d spent ages putting on and then checking in the mirror, angling it slightly so she could see her bottom. She looked like a cross between Kate Middleton and Beyonce, so we’re talking a good six out of ten.
“Please, call me Dick,” he said back, flashing her his £56 smile, and fixing her with his greenish eyes, that occasionally looked brown in certain lights. It’s easy to figure things sometimes in life, and fair to say, at that precise moment, Dick Litt knew that the lights would be staying on in his hotel room that night.
LA was being kind to him, he’d often stand naked in the bathroom chuckling at how funny it was that he was there, and how unpredictable life could be, and then he’d sometimes cry too, because he just wanted a place to call his own and someone to love. He was a complicated, sexy, sometimes startlingly unintelligent man. Occasionally other guys would watch him at the gym, lifting the biggest weights they had and shrieking like a desperate Henry Hill dragging a corpse from the trunk of his car. His dedication, and total lack of self-awareness, knew no bounds.
But back to how he got to LA in the first place. How exactly did it happen? And why was he there, of all places?
Well, for that you’ll need to suspend your disbelief and consider for a moment that the cards hadn’t always fallen quite so deliciously for Dick Litt. There was a time when he worked as a common post boy in a murky basement at Magnificent Magazines HQ in a terrific part of London, near all the sights. You’ve probably heard of Magnificent Magazines, they were the notorious publishers behind such great monthlies as Elegant Lady and Stylish Gentleman, the housewives weekly staple Good Afternoon, and the lads mag Oi Oi!.
His job was cruel and mundane, and the suit he chose to do it in on that fateful day was entirely unnecessary, normally he’d just wear shorts. But it was shiny and effortless, graceful even – it had once hung manfully in the Alexander O’Neal aisle in Debenhams. It’d been lent to Dick by his Uncle Clive who promised him that the suit had magic powers, and had been able to help him shift an astronomical amount of cars from his lot over the years, and as a result he was moving to Spain or Poland, depending which way the coin landed. Dick took it, wiping a tear from his well-defined cheekbone, and put the trousers on. He then smiled, picked up a hairdryer, and switched it on full whack.
“You’re late,” growled his boss, Ivor McBastard, in his trademark Scottish accent. “And what’s that stupid clobber you’re in? I don’t even want to know! Just shut up and sort this enormous pile of letters addressed to people in magazines!”
“But I…” started Dick.
“JUST DO IT!” shouted Ivor, before taking an aggressive bite of a King Sized Snickers and striding out of the room to call a lift.
As he started sorting through the post and putting it into bags, Dick didn’t realise that this was the day that would change his life. That in 48 hours he’d be on a plane going to LA, and that in 50 hours he’d be literally doing it in a toilet with a beautiful professional magazine journalist, and that in 64 hours they’d do it again in a hotel shower, then the bedroom, then back to the shower, and that in probably about 200 hours or so she’d tell him about her boyfriend back home and they’d embark on a strange sexual odyssey.
There was a queue of really handsome men snaking out of the office and down the corridor from Cringe! Magazine, and Dick approached it with suspicion – who were these guys? They all looked like male models. And why were they wearing suits? He struggled with his heavy bag, stuffed full of letters to the problem page from girls with gigantic life-changing love decisions to make despite only being thirteen. There was a nervous tension that was already gnawing away at Dick’s temples, and he was just a post boy, so imagine how the male models felt.
“Excuse me,” he said, attempting to squeeze his muscular frame past the semi-famous face of The Gap, Troyston Peacock.
“Hey watch out guy!” snapped Troyston, turning to face Dick, and pulling his mirrored sunglasses off his face in a temporary rage. “This stuff’s real silk, you’re just going to have to get back in line and wait your turn.”
“But I’m the post boy, I need to…”
“Pull the other one, pal,” interrupted Troyston, the veins in his arms and penis throbbing with anticipation beneath his expensive tailored suit. “The post boy ruse is as old as the hills. And you’re quite clearly a great looking guy, not a post boy. I like your suit. Anyway I don’t care where you go, but you’re after me – I’m Troyston Peacock by the way, my friends call me either Troy, or the Pea-Man, some call me T-P, as in the letters, others say Teepee, as in the wigwam, and others just call me Troyston.”
“I think I’ll call you Troy,” smiled Dick, smiling.
And with that, and the Roman style handshake that immediately followed, a friendship that would last a lifetime, and travel across oceans, was born. Little did they both know, but Dick and Troyston would see the world together, they’d dance at the wildest parties and weep incoherently at the most disturbing orgies together. One day, a long time in the future, they’d sit opposite one another in an old people’s home like the one in Derek. But more importantly, in 48 hours time, they were going to board the same plane.
“Well, look at this girls!” they gathered around like a gaggle of hot secretaries in a Diet Coke advert, even though they were all actually highly trained journalists with impressive degrees in stuff like Journalism, and Reading Books. You could practically taste the sass in the room.
“I mean, I know I’ve seen you before but I can’t place it – girls where do I know him from?”
They literally all giggled.
Her name was Kate Turtledove, she was wearing a medium-priced pencil skirt from a foreign shop in France, and a tight white shirt from Marks and Spencers that just about tamed her large, but not too large, um, tits. She was seductively lowering her glasses to get a really good look at the specimen in front of her. He intrigued her, she found him fascinating, it was rare to see a man in this kind of tense professional situation with his mouth gaping wide open. There was a profound blankness to his gaze.
He, the specimen, was Dick Litt, but you’d probably already put two and two together and figured that out for yourself. Yes, Dick Litt, the post boy in the Debenhams suit was causing a big stir as he stood in the middle of the Cringe! offices on Floor Six, he looked like Michelangelo’s David, only stupid. Dick Litt, statuesque, beautiful, carved from marble, not a single lucid thought in his head.
Already destiny was revving up the engine and putting the wheels in motion for an explosive love affair for Turtledove and her dreamy himbo.
The girls cooed, sighed, two belly laughed, and one licked her lips and winked, which might well have been the sexiest thing Dick had ever seen, were it not for Kate Turtledove sitting just feet away really taking her time eating a banana. She was just his type – curvy, sexy, and obviously clever because she was wearing glasses. His mind was very slowly starting to process thoughts and ideas again. It was like someone had turned a tap on and Dick’s brain was a sink or a bathtub. Although, let’s be honest here, even a sink is a bit of a compliment.
Kate’s body was great, Dick thought, and her eyes were also great, really really great, and nice. Dick had never thought about marriage before, but for a second he dared to dream, dared to envisage a world where he could actually ask someone to marry him without them snorting laughter through their nose. He found himself in an Aintree wedding lodge saying “I do” to his bride – her hair mahogany brown, her dress white and offensively short, her fishnet tights actually inappropriate. Everyone clapped and cheered as he grabbed her bum to celebrate with an uncomfortably long French Kiss, their tongues darting like fighting pythons, her eyes closed to savour the moment, his wide open. He didn’t want to miss this.
As you’d expect with a body you could bounce snooker balls off, Troyston Peacock had already nailed the casting and would be travelling to the five-day shoot on Venice Beach as the primest cut of British steak around, but who would be his counterpoint in this Buddy Movie themed fashion shoot? The Robin to his Batman? The Starksy to his Hutch? The Thelma to his Louise? You can probably guess where this is going, Dick, as it happens, was a shoo-in, all the chicks dug his vibe. Uncle Clive’s words were starting to look very prophetic indeed. Or, as Dick would say, they were starting to look “pathetic”.
“But seriously I’m actually the post boy,” said Dick, mock-protesting, his hands stretched out wide in front of him, part in exaggerated comic disbelief, but also – at a microscopic level – to be up front about it, to make sure they knew that they were taking a massive punt on him. He hadn’t even studied modelling at GCSE, let alone been to Cambridge like half of these guys. Him, Dick Litt, going on a modelling shoot – it beggared belief. A humble post boy who lived with his dad Des and his mum, also called Des.
“Not any more, go and tell McBastard you’ve moved up in the world,” said Kate suddenly standing up to walk somewhere urgently. “Pack your bag, we’ll send a car for you on Wednesday morning.”
“But how will you find me?” he stammered. “You don’t know where I live!”
Kate turned on her heels, and her long glossy brown hair turned with her, creating a very beautiful, intense moment (that would look great in slow motion). She half-smiled, knowingly.
“Oh we’ll find you.”
And with that, she disappeared down the office, like a beautiful angel with an important feature about 423 Ways to Look Amazing Naked This Autumn to write.
“Close your mouth pal, you might start drooling,” said Troyston, landing a man-sized slap on Dick’s back. “Come on, looks like we’ve got some serious pre-shoot partying to do.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m joining the queue to get in…”
“That’s hilarious! You’re funny Dick, that’s one of the nine things I like about you.”
Troyston grabbed his shoulder and lead Dick past the guys in shirts and the girls with excellent norks and couriered him to the front of the queue. If there was one place where Troyston Peacock was king, it was at Chaste nightclub in Central London.
“Delroy, whassap!” he boomed, offering the security guard a fist bump. “Seriously man, when am I ever going to try some of your mama’s jerk chicken?”
They all laughed, even Delroy. On the inside, though, Delroy was pretty offended. Firstly, because he wasn’t called Delroy, and secondly because his mum was from Ghana.
“Welcome to the Peacock Palace” said Troyston, gesticulating with his hands to suggest that he basically owned the place. Which technically he did not.
Dick looked around in marveled awe at the state of it. He’d been to clubs before (quite a few times actually), but they’d never been as shiny as this one. Everything seemed polished, cleaned even, and there was even a really cheerful depressed guy in the toilet handing out lollipops whenever you stopped in for a piss and a chat. Dick looked in the mirror and smiled to himself. He’d already had three bottles of beer and a massive cocktail. This, he told himself, was what hitting the big time felt like.
He chucked 17p onto the metal tray for Mr Lollipop and went off to find Troy, who – guess what? – was already with some chicks. Hot chicks too. They averaged a good five out of ten, and all of them seemed pretty happy to see Dick.
“I love your suit,” said a blonde one.
“It’s really nice,” said another blonde one.
“What’s it from?” slurred the other blonde one.
This whole situation had five or sixway written all over it, and Troyston was an absolute master when it came to group sex. Once he’d been in Barcelona and he’d orchestrated a thirteenway with twelve model friends of his. It had been absolutely mind blowing, and also quite moving when it turned out to be responsible for three pregnancies.
“Dick, my old pal, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Dick stared blankly at Troyston, trying to figure out what he might be thinking. He closed his eyes tight, hoping that if he concentrated hard enough, he might somehow be able to read his mind. But it just wasn’t happening, not today. If Dick was ever going to become a psychic he was going to have to go on a course.
“I’m sorry, Troy. I don’t know.”
“You. Me. These honeys right here.”
Dick stared at him blankly.
Troy winked and danced into the middle of the group of girls with his tongue flapping around out of his mouth like an angry eel. Dick looked on, still trying to figure out what Troy was on about with all of his riddles. He momentarily disappeared into a dream sequence when he was back at school studying hard, rather than just staring out of the window or bunking off.
“Well fancy seeing you here,” came a voice from just over his left shoulder, behind the extra padded bit on his Alexander O’Neal suit.
“Oh wow hi,” said Dick.
It was Kate Turtledove, and she looked really, really excellent.