We are the Young People. You might have seen us around. Our kind gather in herds of six in louche nightclubs, mingling in small cliques of cocksure bucks of quite unimaginable attractiveness, discussing various hedonistic activities that best befit the energy and spirit of our age. We range from anything between 16-29, are enviably pretty to look at, and indulge in so much pleasure-seeking revelry, those who are excluded from our group (the over 29s) are left open-jawed in stupefaction.
It is a Friday evening. Here, in the Kingdom of the Young, a pulsating orb of kinetic energy vibrates throughout the entire city. The night is ours. We gather in Wilson’s Nightclub, once an OAP home, to consume various alcoholic substances and have conversations pertaining to matters of the incredibly Young. Norman Smedley, a Young Man of seventeen, takes a sip of his drink and chuckles most heartily.
“The thrill for me is knowing that in forty minutes, I’m going to make myself so sick, I will expel my bowels,” he explains to his lover, Beryl Gunridge.
“Indeed. I am also visited by insurmountable pleasure at the prospect of making myself throw up on a tramp, and perhaps even permitting a heroin dealer to rent out my ovaries for the night,” she replies, looking Young and enviably pretty.
As the evening continues, the Young People unite in a miasma of ethanized transcendence, erecting a ten-foot beercan with which they deify their self-destructing nowness – slaves to the moment, worshippers of the never-forming wrinkle.
In a candlelit bedroom in Hackney, George Corbett, a Young Man of staggering attractiveness, beds an older woman of 43.
“I enjoy the sensation of loving you,” he says, thrusting himself inside her, “because you are older and wiser, like my mother.”
“Yes. Afterwards, I will bring you juice and cookies, permit you to suckle from my maternal breast and sing you a reassuring song that condemns all the demons in your soul,” she replies, cushioning his Young penis with her well-tested uterus.
All over the land, Young People are doing things. They are dancing to generic Europop, letting the repetitive candied rhythms infuse their loins with sweat-swilling pleasure. They are sharing lips and tongues, fusing their spring-loaded freedoms and swiveling their hips in slender-boned merriment.
“It is my opinion, being Young, that older people are less attractive, saggier and generally more worthless than us. They are condemned forever to skitter around the dazzling baseness of our follies, eyeing us with searing jealousy, and never eclipsing our timeless beauty,” says a Young Person, blinking his days away.
He is right. For we are the Young. We will never grow old.
Author's Bio: Harold is an Edinburgh-based writing man. He nurses kumquats back to full health. If he disappeared, he would return a week later as a shop assistant in Poole (somewhere in England). Funnier bio information has been deleted at his request.