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From: Nicholas Urfe <nickurfe@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} James 05 3/3 [Urfe] Ff, fM, mF, ff, Mm, fMm, Mf, voy, hints of others
Date: Sat, 24 Jun 2000 01:10:20 -0400
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The James Sisters
by Nicholas Urfe
activities described herein: Ff, fM, mF, ff, Mm, fMm, Mf, voy, hints of
squickable activities too numerous to mention but not that bad, really
Fifth Chapter: The Date (part 3 of 3)
The naked kid with the gold chain around his waist was fucking the
weather woman, still totally unconscious as she jerked and flopped with
every thrust of his hips, one leg slithering off the couch that he made a
half-assed attempt to catch, her skirt riding up over the pattern on her
belly. Had the feral girl ever finished it? She was on her knees, the
side of her face pressed into the carpet with a heart-breakingly lost
expression, her thighs quivering, her calves clenching, her toes curling,
her mouth working in time with the tattooed girl's mouth, kneeling in her
baggy jeans behind the feral girl's naked hips, the Skunkworks cap now
perched bill backwards on her head so she could more easily eat out the
feral girl's cunt and ass with extravagant, sloppy licks. The feral girl
still clutched her red felt-tip pen in one hand. The other kid, capless,
sat staring wide-eyed at the nitrous hookah as if it might speak to him
at any moment. Who knows? Maybe it was.
"Want? Some?" said the naked kid between thrusts. Flop. Flop.
I passed through the door the Wet Angel had been standing in, and down
the narrow, steep stairs, into the belly of the Garden.
A tall, skinny girl, wearing a faded, ratty slip once white, now
yellowed ivory with age, was writing something on her arm with a pretty
fair replica of a Sikes-Fairborn commando knife. The music was duller,
down here; the thick air furry with the smell of old mold and damp and
rot. I could hear the blood dripping from her arm onto the carpet, her
bare foot. Plip. She took no notice of me as I stuck my head through the
door behind her.
This might have been one of the bedrooms, or staterooms, or whatever
you call them on a houseboat, but it had been tricked out some time ago,
maybe the '70s by the look of the puke-green shag and the dark paneling,
as a rumpus room. And it had recently hosted quite the rumpus. I felt
like I was walking into the detritus of a wrap party for one of those
Calvin Klein jeans ads: kids, four or five, boys or girls I couldn't
tell, all of them somewhere between looking quite mature for twelve and
awfully young for nineteen, naked, or half-wearing shredded jeans, giant
Ts, baby Ts, underwear around knees or ankles or shoved aside from a bare
cunt, someone's finger desultorily inside, one sock on and one foot bare,
a boy wearing a black lacey bra, passed out, asleep, post-coital, none of
them Jessie, someone looking up from a wet kiss, dripping something
viscous into someone's mouth, a thick swallow, gulp, a grin, back to the
kiss. A tipped-over keg in the corner, plastic cups littering the floor,
one crumpling as someone rolled over on her back ("Ow"), a couple of Coke
can bongs smeared with tar and ashes. A hypodermic needle or two. A
spoon, blackened from flame. A bottle of Knob Creek, on the counter, with
a couple of fingers left. I headed that way, stepping gingerly around
limbs, pale white, dark brown, golden. Someone touched my ankle, briefly.
And then I had the bottle.
By the counter--which had been doing adequate service as a wet bar (no
ice, but a puddle in a Tupperware bowl that had probably been ice at one
point)--was of all things an electric fireplace, some goofy thing with
plastic logs and a red light inside that flickered. Over the fireplace, a
mantel, of course, encrusted with a generation or two of candles and
stumps of candles and the petrified puddled remains of candles. And
burned into the front edge of the mantel with one of those wood-burning
tools you use in summer camp when you're twelve and then never again
until you're retired and making a sign for your summer house, partially
obscured by stalactites of wax, a word:
CROATAN.
I poured a slug of bourbon straight from the bottle down my throat,
realizing only after it had burned its way down that it might have been
smart to investigate before drinking. Lucky me; nothing but bourbon. I
had another slug to celebrate. Slug. Good word. It slid down my throat
like some oleaginous pseudopod that sat heavily in my stomach and sent
slimy little tendrils out through my bloodstream to lighten my head.
Someone giggled. Someone said, "Hey. Hey, mister." Someone else said,
"Oh, not again. Okay." Wet sounds. More kissing; I didn't bother to
figure out what. Someone snorted in their sleep, and a foot kicked out,
clattering away plastic cups and one of the makeshift bongs. Time to go.
I'd take the bourbon with me.
But the wall by the door, the whole corner, that I saw as I turned to
leave, was covered in photographs. Polaroids. Hundreds, maybe thousands
of them.
Can you blame me?
Carefully over someone's calf. Foot goes there, near her armpit, so.
"Hey. Mister. You deaf?" Another giggle. "Again? I don't--okay." Movement
over there--a gasp, someone rising up on elbows and knees, let's not go
that way, shall we? Over the leg, it's moving, whoops, don't fall. Don't
drop the bottle, either. A smile. Smile back. No, not right now, thanks
anyway. Burst of laughter from another room, and the whole time someone's
been having what sounds like a heated argument with someone else I can't
hear somewhere else, and the music, it's something bright and tinny,
poppy. Don't step on the underwear, look at the skidmark, did this kid
ever do laundry? Eh. One more step.
And here we are.
The Polaroids.
Different sizes. Colored and discolored with age and spilled liquor
and God knows what else and smoke and just about every other wear and
tear possible except sunlight. Some of the photos were black and white,
and some were even brown and yellow, on this thick card with the photo
itself on a filmy overlay. Kids, all of them, kids going back--forty,
forty-five years, he'd said, and if they had instant cameras back then,
well. Crew cuts and long-and-straight and shag cuts and mullets and
weird, angular '80s things, punk cuts like the splattered remains of some
demented rainbow, thick curls tamed or wild in '60s 'fros, random, knife-
cut sprigs, a baby dyke's first bad haircut, a clone's first flattop,
jheri curls and big hair, nerds without pocket protectors (or pockets,
for that matter), a little clique of goths and proto-goths clustered in a
corner down there, all black lace and black dye and black lipstick and
black, black eyes. Thick horn-rimmed glasses, and John Lennon grannies,
and Ray-Bans everywhere. Like a yearbook from Hell. White kids, mostly,
but here and there enough black faces and Asian faces and Hispanic and
that girl, there, looks like a full-blood Native American, maybe. And
here and there the occasional adult, looking as out of place as I felt,
always with a kid in the picture: a man, beaming proudly as two girls
kiss in front of him, a woman, there, naked, as a young boy grins and
buckles something around her waist. No Jessie, that I could see, but was
that? Yes. The weather woman passed out upstairs, smiling that famous
Mona Lisa come-hither smile, the feral girl kissing her cheek, one eye
turned like a deer's to the Polaroid's flashbulb. A brand new photo on
the wall. The pictures stuck with thumb tacks, tape, glue, whatever was
to hand, overlapping, with splotches of discolored paneling visible here
and there, like rot; whatever this wall was for, it wasn't a clear,
immutable record. It was chaotic. In flux. Some pictures lay scattered on
the floor--a girl, older than me now, dead for all I know, looking up
with big, frightened eyes and no smile at all, face too bright, too
close, eyes red, retinal blood blazing in the harsh light of the flash,
someone's footprint smudging her cheek, her temple, her forehead.
And always, over and over again, somewhere in the picture, the mantel.
Clean; coated in candles; racked with liquor bottles; clean again. But
there, in all of them, or almost all of them. And the word CROATAN had
always been burned into it. Always.
More bourbon.
Laughter. The music now something rapidly percussive, filled with
machine-gun snare bursts and weird shifts in tone. "I wanna--yeah. Like
that. Ooh." The argument was over; somewhere else, someone was singing
limericks at the top of her lungs. "There once was a fellow named"
something I couldn't make out. Somebody, or at least two somebodies, were
fucking behind me; slap, slap, slap, unh, oh, unh. Oh. "Hey. Hey, you
with the bottle. Trey wants to see you."
Who, me?
I turned; a kid lying on the floor, bra hitched up around his neck,
someone's heading bobbing over his dick, pointing towards the door. So I
turned almost all the way round again.
And there was the Wet Angel. Whose name, it appeared, was Trey.
He'd lost his stocking, and hadn't bothered to find any other
clothing. He smiled, an utterly disarming smile, hey, and he crooked a
finger at me. I followed. Behind me, the sound of water, or some liquid,
falling from a height, spattering, "Hey! You fuckwad. You got it in my
eye. Bitch."
"Sorry."
The girl in the ivory slip had set her knife down and sunk to squat on
the floor or deck or whatever, staring at the streams of blood meandering
down her left arm. Trey was further down the hall, still grinning; he
held his hand out, and I took another shot of bourbon and then handed him
the bottle. He drank it down like water, galoop, galoop, and then tossed
it empty into a corner. The girl in the ivory slip watched its arc,
jumped at the smash, stared at the shards. I grabbed Trey's hand, and one
of us pulled the other close. Cold sweat slicked the small of his back,
and his ass was wet and sticky, and his breath tasted of bourbon, and his
mouth was as sloppy and guileless as his grin. I pulled him tightly to
me, and felt his erection warm and glowing pressing up and to the side
between our grinding hips. "Hey," he said, under my mouth. I grabbed his
lip between my teeth and nipped. "Ow." My momentum carried us up against
a wall, smashing my hands against the paneling. I let go, took a step
back, grabbed his hands as he tried to push away from the wall and
knocked him back against it, pinning his hands to his sides. I fell on
his mouth, his cheeks, his throat, biting at it, licking, feeling his
muscles close under his skin, tasting the sweat that had dried along the
line of his collarbone, salty and thin and acidic with old alcohol. His
hair, long and curly, tickled my nose; I blew it out of the way, lifted
my head. His eyes burned. I kissed him again, and he was more sure this
time, his tongue meeting mine, his lips matching mine. I felt tendons
shift in his arms as he flexed his fingers, made his left hand into a
fist, relaxed it.
I wasn't hard yet, stirring, but not hard. He was. I reached up and
wiped the spittle from his lips, his cheek. He nipped at my palm, and I
let him lick it. I spat in my palm for good measure, then reached down
and held him, long and thin and warm, pulsing, bouncing a little in my
fingers, a distant echo of his heartbeat, strong and fast. I stroked him,
once. He grinned again. Stimulus; response. He reached out and played
with my hair, coming loose from its ponytail. Tried to push my shirt
open, off my shoulders; I shrugged away from him, gave him a warning
look, a-ah. He grinned some more. I stroked some more. Kissed his mouth.
His cheek and chin. His neck, and felt it buzz as he said "Mmm, hm hm."
The flat hairless plank of his chest, swelling with a deep breath as I
stroked him some more, the sweat and spit and Cowper's patented elixir
enough to slick things along. His hips bounced, and again. I kissed his
belly, smooth, a little soft, stirring the thin clear hair around his
navel with my breath. I didn't lick his navel. (Lint.) I did kiss the
corner of his hipbone, there, and he wiggled and shivered at my touch.
Down, along the hints of hair about the base of his cock, trailing silky
down the inside of his thighs. Funk, musk, old sweat and sour sex, like
dried salt, like bleach. His balls, prickly like thistles or small
hedgehogs with dark hair, unlike the rest of his body. The skin darker in
tone, olive, almost, against the golden blue of his legs. I shifted my
weight, kneeling now as I licked the base of his cock, one hand adjusting
my own as it grew and shifted in response to his "Mmmmm, yeah." Licked
along the underside, running my tongue along the veins, firm, but
yielding slightly under the soft skin. There, the faint ridge of
circumcision scar; there, the purple mountain majesty of his glans. I
pulled back, seized by the impulse to take a bite, to chew on it, spongy,
moist, like cake, like some bizarre new sushi. Warm mahi-mahi on a stick.
"Come on," he said, pained. I smiled up at him. Brief, and in the
imperative, but the first complete sentence I'd heard him utter. His
voice was high, clear, weirdly unearthly. Or maybe that was just the
bourbon, and the blood leaving my brain.
"Patience," I said, my lips close to the head of his cock, bobbing
with the pulse of his blood. Stirring him with my words. My word. I
leaned forward. Licked it. Took it into my mouth and held it a moment,
resting it, surrounding it in warmth and wetness. He moaned. Unearthly.
It wasn't just the bourbon.
"You know," said a familiar voice, said Jessie, "nothing gets me
hotter than watching two guys together." I took my mouth off his cock and
looked. She stood at the base of the stairs, naked, mostly behind the
tattooed girl from upstairs who'd lost her jeans and her sneakers but
still had that kid's cap. Jessie nuzzled the tattooed girl. "What do you
think, Kaitlyn?" she said. "You like to watch? You want to join in? All
it takes is one good fuck, and they're yours forever..."
Kaitlyn's hand was jammed in her yellow underpants, and she suddenly
sawed it back and forth, with a wet slapping sound. "Come on," she
whined. "Fuck me. Fuck me." Trey, the Wet Angel, put his hand on the back
of my head, and I gave his cock a little kiss, haven't forgotten you,
just a minute, what the hell, one more. But I kept my eyes on them. The
shadows falling, just so, and I couldn't make out the tattoo. What was
it? And Jessie was kissing Kaitlyn, and reached down to grab her wrist
and still her frantic masturbation, bringing her hand up to their mouths.
And in the room behind the wall Trey was leaning against somebody slammed
something, hard, the wall shivered, Trey's cock jumped as his hips
bucked. "Fuck!" somebody yelled. "Fuck a goddamn duck!"
Kaitlyn and Jessie's kiss broke off, as Jessie held Kaitlyn's hand up
between them, and Kaitlyn tipped her head to lick her fingers. Her eyes
on Jessie. Jessie, grinning, licking Kaitlyn's thumb, nibbling it. "No,"
she said.
Kaitlyn blinked.
"No," said Jessie, "you're just boring me. I want them."
Kaitlyn threw her hand down. "Cunt!" she said, stamping her foot.
Jessie shrugged and stepped out from behind her. Strapped around her
right thigh was an absurdly black rubber dildo. Kaitlyn stamped her foot
again, and yelped. "Fuck!" she said, hopping up on one foot. "Fuck!
There's fucking broken glass down here! Fuck!"
Jessie walked past, towards us. Me, and Trey. The girl in the ivory
slip looked up, sniffing the air, as the tattooed girl bounced off the
wall and sank to the floor, still holding her foot, worrying at the glass
jammed into her heel. The girl in the ivory slip crawled across the hall
and over, sniffing the tattooed girl's foot, gingerly leaning out and
licking the blood. "Fuck," the tattooed girl was muttering. "Just fucking
fuck me, already. Fuck me. God. Please. I gotta. Just fuck me."
And I could see her tattoo. Just before Jessie's bare hip eclipsed the
girls, the light hit her chest just so, and I could see it:
| |
| |
| |
\ /
\ /
-------
|
---
|
---
|
---
|
Well, part of it was circular, anyway.
"Who wants it, boys?" said Jessie, stroking the dildo strapped to her
thigh like the nightstick from some weird fetish police officer's
uniform. "You've got me all hard. I just gotta come, or they'll turn blue
and fall off."
Trey giggled.
"I think," I said, stroking his cock, "we have a volunteer."
"Yeah," said Trey. "Sure. I'm game. Whatever."
"Angel. Darlin'. Honey," purred Jessie, as we shifted about, and I
took the opportunity to unzip my pants and give my cock some room to
play, and she snuggled up behind Trey and draped one arm across his
shoulder, while her other hand made ripping velcro noises as she adjusted
the ride of the dildo on her thigh, "that man on the floor in front of
you about to blow your brains out is a writer. A writer, okay? So just
shut up and don't say anything and look pretty and try not to--"
Trey grunted.
Jessie thrust her hips, slowly.
"--embarrass yourself."
"Unh," he said. "Ooh. Uh-huh. Okay." I wrapped my lips about him.
"Ooooookay. Heh. Hey."
Jessie smacked his ass. "Shut up."
"Yeah, heh heh. Okay. Shutting--ow!"
I let her do most of the work, fucking his ass as I held his cock in
my hands and let his hips slide his cock jerkily in and out of my mouth.
A good old-fashioned skull-fuck, like we used to do in the old country,
watch the gag reflex and you'll do fine. Every now and then I gave him a
hint of teeth, scraping along his flesh, at once hard and tender, and
then rewarded him with an extra helping of tongue, sliding down under the
base of him and back up to the top again, working the skin there with my
fingers and thumbs, lightly. I could just see her eyes over his shoulder,
past his ridiculous curly hair, and they smiled down at me, and then
closed, in concentration. I felt for her hand and found it, on his hip,
and our fingers entwined and squeezed. I could feel the pressure as she
slid in and out of him, in and out, the mass of the dildo as it stretched
him wide, passing, in and out, out of phase with the movements of his
hips as the two of them rocked apart and then slapped together, grunt,
but it was still almost like Trey dissolved. I was sucking Jessie off,
fellating her cock, giving her head. He was just this odd medium of
exchange between us, a doorway, a limen bodied forth and then ignored,
tossed aside. He wasn't there. He didn't matter. He gasped and jerked
hard, nearly whipping out of my mouth, splashing my tongue and my throat
with come. "Oh," he said, "oh goddammit stop," as Jessie slapped against
him one more time, and once more again. "Oh," he said. "Oh, man. Fuck.
That was. Fuck." I swallowed, worked his cock between my fingers and
squeezed out one last runny pearl as he groaned again, and I licked it
off his tip. He was already going soft, but I was still hard, achingly
hard, and as he staggered over to the wall I stood up, careful, and
looked at Jessie, opening her eyes, and without bothering to let her
strip off the dildo still shining, marred a little at the tip, I gathered
her in and devoured her. Somehow she ended up on the floor without
banging her head and her legs wrapped tightly about my hips and I was in
her, inside her, fucking her so hard I was rubbing my knees and my elbows
raw on the old threadbare carpet, and her ass, too, and still she was
hissing "Harder, God damn, oh, brutal, just fuck me already, God damn."
The dildo was hung up on my open shirt, but I managed to shrug it out of
the way. My belt was digging into my stomach with every thrust and I
grabbed her hands and pinned them over her head and lifted myself up so
the belt dangled down, out of the way, mostly. Trey was gone. Long, slow
strokes now, even as she tossed her head back and forth, "Please, harder,
dammit, Carter, I can't, I have to, you fucking bastard."
"How long?" I said, gasping. Slowly. What are you doing? "How long
have you been coming here?"
"What?" she said, her voice a quiet gasp.
"How. Long." Christ. I wanted her; I wanted to come. God damn. Thought
was an effort. Speaking was next to impossible. I. Fuck.
"Two," she said.
"Two what?" I said. Slamming down, pulling back up again. Inquisition
through sex. Did those Spaniards ever think of this?
"Two years, dammit. Two!"
The girl in the ivory slip had crawled over to us, fresh blood
slicking the palm of her hand, dripping from a finger or two. Hers? Or
Kaitlyn's? She knelt by Jessie's head and watched the blood drip, plip,
onto the carpet.
"Virginia?" I said, pulling up again.
She groaned and tried to buck, levering her hips, kicking my back with
her heels. "Fuck you!" she yelled. "Just fuck me! God damn!"
"That's not," I said, lungs heaving, "how we're playing this." What
are you doing? Why are you? What?
She jerked her hips, wrestled one hand free. Shoved at my chest.
Slapped it. "Off," she said. "Off. Get off. No, goddammit, get off me."
A game? Girl says no, Carter, you stop. Immediately. No ifs ands or--
but how do we read this? Is she just doing that to get you to get off
her? Quid for some quo you can't see? Is she--
Christ. Fuck. Shithead.
I pushed myself off her. She lay still; I hovered over her. We hung a
moment there, unmoving.
She looked away, chewing her lip.
I rocked back and sat my bare ass on the carpet and held my head in my
hands.
"Hey," said someone. A girl. The girl in the ivory slip. "I could, you
know, fuck." I had no idea to whom she was speaking. "You like knives?"
"Go away," said Jessie. "Carter," she said. "Carter." A stirring, a
rip of velcro. "Carter. Look at me."
I did. "Virginia," I said, insistent.
"You know the answer," said Jessie.
"Tell me," I said.
"Yes," she said. "Maybe fifteen, twenty years ago. But yes. Of fucking
course. Carter. Please."
I looked away. I knew, and she knew I knew. What she didn't want me to
ask. What she was waiting for me to ask. So I didn't. Hell. I might as
well have asked about the blond girl from Flicker or her black-haired
friend with the tattoo on her hand.
"Carter," she said. She put her hand on my arm, and I didn't shrug it
off.
"Hey," said the girl in the ivory slip. "I can fuck, you know?"
"Go away," Jessie and I said at once. She put her other hand on my
other arm, pulled my hands down from my face. I looked up at her. "I told
you," she said, her face serious, wise beyond her years, looking
suddenly, startlingly, like her sister. "Don't ask." She kissed me,
lightly, tentatively, and pulled back when my lips did nothing to
respond.
"What," I said, flatly. "Am I embarrassing you?"
"This was a bad idea." She was stroking my arm. Reaching up, brushing
my hair back, out of my face.
"Because I'm a nice guy," I said.
"Because," she said, leaning forward again, "you're a nice guy." We
kissed. And kissed again, mouths opening for each other. Her hand,
finding my cock, still erect somehow. My hand, finding her cunt, still
wet, still open. Our mutual need. Our hands and legs, with minds of their
own, our mouths without consulting us kept kissing, kissing, and she was
in my lap, straddling me, and without looking or stopping to think we
adjusted ourselves, just so, inserted tab A into slot B. We sat there a
moment, joined. Engulfed. Invaded. Her head tipped down, forehead resting
on mine. Her hair a blond curtain about us. Her arms wrapped about my
shoulders, mine resting on her upraised thighs. "Just fuck me," she said.
"Just kiss me and eat me and come in my mouth and just fucking fuck me
whenever we want to fuck, okay? Don't ask. Just don't ask. This has
nothing to do with you. None of it."
"I'm not sure I can do that," I murmured. "I can't just--"
"You have to," she said. "You have to." Rocking back and forth, the
two of us. Motion. Friction. The sweetness of it. How right it felt. I
was made for this, and she was made for this, and we were doing what we
were made for, and I wanted her, and she wanted me, and it was all,
really, that simple. It should have been.
"I have to know, Jessie," I said. "I have to know."
"No," she said. "No, you don't."
"Jessie," I said.
"No," she said.
"Jessie," I said. "I love you," I said. "I can't just--"
Her finger came up and touched my lips, shh. "I've learned," she said,
"not to trust such things uttered, mm, at the height of passion. Twenty-
seven-year-olds have such a different idea of love than, aha, the rest of
us."
"Twenty-six," I said. Rocking faster now. Oh, yes.
"Twenty-six?" she said.
"Twenty-six," I said.
"Ten years," she said. "Ten years older."
"Ten?" I said. "Not eleven?"
"Tomorrow," she said, pulling herself close to me. I leaned back,
resting my weight on my hands, using the leverage, oh, to do just that,
only moreso, better, faster. "Tomorrow it's just ten. Tomorrow."
Her mouth is sweet. Her tongue is nimble, and agile, as fast as her
mind. Her breasts are if not some Platonic ideal of breasts then at least
a Carterian ideal made oh-so-lovely flesh. Her cunt. Her legs. Jessie
fucking James, she is. Christ.
"You know," she said, as things stilled a moment, not stopped, but
slower, a breather, both of us panting a little, resting up for the final
push, "you know," she said, "I wasn't kidding about the two of you. You
and Trey. You guys. You sucking him off. Fuck."
"He's a looker," I said.
"You guys," she said. "Fucking him as he fucked you. Sort of. But
watching was--ah--was, uh, nice. I got it, I think. I felt it. Mm.
Inside. All lit up, suddenly. Watching. The thousand eyes of my, my eyed
blood."
"What?" I said. And here we go. The roller coaster's headed up that
last hill. Chug-chug chug-chug, I think I can, I think...
"There," she said, closing her eyes, up and down and up again, "There
my beauty lay on her stomach, ah, showing me, showing the thousand eyes
wide, wide open in my eyed blood her slightly raised shoulder blades, oh,
oh, her, don't tell me, oh, the bloom along the incurvation of her spine,
the tense, fuck, narrow swellings, fuck, the swellings of her tense
narrow, narrow nates, um, unh, clothed in black, in black," her hands on
my black turtleneck, small, insistent, my hands one behind me, holding us
up against her thrusts, meeting her halfway, the other seeking out the
sweet bare incurvation of her spine, "and, oh God, and the seaside of her
schoolgirl thighs, fuck. Oh. Fuck."
No stopping now. The top of the parabola. The crest of the hill. The
rocket, poised in flight, hanging there, that brief spark of infinity,
rainbow's edge, as close to immortality as we ever get, there, the
moment, the Now, catch it, carpe it, here it is, all you have to do is
reach out and take it and it's yours, it's ours, oh God it's rushing down
now so big, so enormous, fighting itself free, and I fall, and she falls,
and we're falling together, coming and going and dying all at once, the
lights flaring brightest just before they're snuffed, the deepest
darkness just before dawn.
Kissing. Still entwined. Blood sluggishly flowing back to brain.
"What?" I murmur, again.
"Like that," she says, her breath against my cheek again. Kissing.
Borders are gone; discretion is gone, and with it the sense of the
discrete. Actions flow, one to the other. Are we speaking? Are we
kissing? Are we still moving, still pulsing? Yes, and yes, and yes to
all, and all at once. Still within the shards of the Now. Clutch it close
and hold it tightly, even as it ebbs away. "Like that," she says, as we
kiss, "but with boys. And my eyes. And my blood. And his schoolboy
thighs. And your black."
"What?" I said, and even then the color fades away, and we were two
people again, and she was sticky with sweat and other things, and my
pants were damp, and uncomfortable, and her weight was not exactly
onerous but could be, soon enough. And I was short of breath. "But
where?" I said. "Where--"
" 'Lolita,' " she said. "You doofus. Nabokov. Come on."
"I have," I said, "a confession to make."
"No," she said.
"I, uh--"
"No," she said. "After all that shit you gave me."
"I haven't read it. Yet. Ow."
"You shithead," she said.
"Hey," I said.
She kissed me. I kissed her. "I'll let you borrow my copy," she said.
She had no idea what had happened to her clothing. She'd lost it all,
somewhere. Neither of us felt inclined to look. "The halter was nice,"
she said. "But the pants I got at Rave, cheap. The shoes--aw, fuck. I
liked the shoes. Fuck 'em."
I wrapped her in my khaki shirt, which covered enough to be barely
decent.
Kaitlyn stood in the doorway of the Croatan room, her underwear around
her ankles, Trey kneeling before her, his mouth busy at her crotch, the
girl in the ivory slip standing behind her, kissing her neck, her hand
brown with dried blood toying with a nipple here, a nipple there,
crossing and recrossing that tattoo. Kaitlyn grinned. "Go Jessie," she
said, "wit' yo writah. Go Jessie, wit' yo writah."
Trey turned his head from his ministrations; the girl in the ivory
slip stopped kissing. Someone from inside joined them, drunken, high,
fucking or just fucked, a rude rhythm following us up the stairs. "Go
Jessie, wit' yo writah, go Jessie, wit' yo writah."
She clutched my arm. "It's really gone downhill lately," she muttered.
"Kids."
I managed not to laugh.
The weather woman was gone. The kid whose cap Kaitlyn was wearing was
gone. The naked kid with the chain around his waist was gone. The feral
girl, naked now, scrubbed mostly clean, danced with herself in the middle
of the room, slowly, out of beat with the music, noisy, crunchy, poppy
punk. (Underneath, the nasty singsong playground rhythm still belting
from the kids downstairs, words blunted, lost: "DA da-dah, DA-da da-
dah...") A man in a yellow shirt and a blue tie and wearing no pants
watched her, his eyes oblivious to anything else as she swayed, bumped
and ground her nascent hips, ran her hands through the air where one day
her breasts would be. Jessie shivered. We stepped outside, onto the deck.
Headed for the gangplank. Headed home.
"Jessie!" called a voice from the bow. The enormous man.
"Hey," she said, quietly, stopping a moment, swaying there between
ship and shore.
"You have a good time?"
(DA da-dah, DA-da da-dah.)
"Yeah," she said, holding me close.
"Beaver Bear was out earlier. You folks take care."
"Thanks, Bee," she said. "Thanks."
Barefoot, barelegged--I carried her up the slope. Rocks. Branches.
Broken glass and God knows maybe even a needle or three. I insisted. She
didn't resist. Snuggled into my arms, her bare legs draped over me, my
hand on her bare ass, still warm. Her arms around my neck. Pressing a
kiss to my cheek, stroking it, as I struggled manfully up the hill,
ducking under this branch or that, carefully, carefully, and God damn if
I wasn't coming up for one more go, and damned if she couldn't feel me
rising just below her hips, and damned if her kisses weren't lingering
longer and more sweetly. "You big strong man, you." I didn't set her down
when we got to the roadside, but straightened my back--manfully, of
course--and carried her down to my car. Kissing her. I set her on the
hood, carefully, and kissed her again. Unlocked the door, turned on the
stereo, rolled down the windows. Checked the clock. Punched play on the
tape deck. Beaver Bear be damned.
"Music?" she said.
"Trust me," I said. "If you got the joke, you'd think it was a
scream." The weirdly beautiful loungey thing that had been playing when
we stopped the car came to an end, and crashed into the Buzzcocks. "What
Do I Get?" I chuckled, and unbuttoned my shirt, baring her collarbone,
her breasts, her belly, her sex.
"Not just yet," she said, lying back. Bringing up her feet, resting
them on the edge of the hood a moment, knees touching--then spreading
them, deliberately, slowly, opening herself up to the night air. "I need
a little--"
I was already bending down, kissing the inside of her thigh, that
tendon, there, smelling her, licking slowly, carefully, up her warm, warm
lips, and again. Feeling her slicken slowly under my tongue. Her shiver.
Her head toss back and forth. Her moan. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned
my pants. "Hey," I said.
"Mm," she said, kicking one leg out, a beautifully precise
counterweight as she floated up to sit on the edge of the hood, her legs
wrapping around my waist, her hands enfolding my face. Smiling. A kiss,
and another kiss.
"Midnight," I said. "It's midnight. A little after, really." And
another kiss. "Happy birthday."
"I'm sixteen," she sang, "I'm beautiful, and I'm yours." And she
giggled, and I laughed.
It was slow, and careful. Loving. We were learning each other's
bodies, now, and knew how to say things back and forth, listen and decode
and respond in kind. That gasp. This twitch. Eyes closed, just so; lips
like that, and a kiss is necessary. Hands there, of course, where else
would they go? And ever the eternal rhythm, in, and out; back, and forth;
tension, and release.
And damned if Nicky didn't put a little Robyn Hitchcock on his tape.
Jessie sang along, quietly, a chuckle in her voice. "Use your arms, use
your legs, and use your Heaven..."
And we did.
So.
This is the difficult part.
I haven't been sleeping well, lately. Tossing, back and forth.
Questions. My mind is aglow. Burning. Swarming. Something isn't right.
One of these things, Carter, just doesn't belong. This is all going too
well--when's that other shoe going to drop? How big is it? Who's holding
it? Hadn't you better be ready? Virginia. Andi. And Lenny James his own
damn self. To say nothing of Jessie. Or Leah. Or--
Driving home. The tape sputtering its way to its end. I wasn't really
paying attention to the song, then; I listened to it again, later. "I
wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger..."
"I, uh," I said.
"What?" said Jessie, curled up in my shirt, bare legs tucked under
herself. Sleepy. Happy. Relaxed. Beautiful.
"Look," I said. "I, uh--"
"Carter," she said, warning me.
"Leah," I said. She tensed. "Leah's never been there. Has she."
"Don't. Ask," she said, her voice gone quiet.
"I'm trying to make sense out of this," I said. "I need to know why.
Why you said certain--"
"There's no sense to make," she said. "There's no 'why.' Stop asking,
goddammit."
"Leah," I said, "came to the house today."
"She did," said Jessie.
"Yes," I said. "She did."
"Really."
"She wanted to find out what my intentions were. Towards you. Whether
I loved you. What was going on. You know. Big sister stuff."
"She's just a big ol' jealous dyke," said Jessie. But her voice was
flat. Her heart wasn't in it. "I told you that."
"You're right," I said, "about the binoculars. I was watching you last
night. While we were talking on the phone. While you said Leah was eating
you out, while you were playing with her."
"So I was lying," she said. "Playing. Phone sex. More fun that way."
"I asked her."
Jessie said nothing.
"I said," I said, "I asked her. Leah. Whether you two had ever slept
together. I was--it was rude. I know."
"You know," she said, echoing me.
"But I had to know. And she said, she said no. She said never. She,
she had no idea why you'd ever say such a thing."
And again, Jessie said nothing.
"Jessie," I said. "I'm sorry. I had to know. I--"
"Stop the car," she said.
"Jessie," I said.
"Stop. The fucking. Car."
I did.
She sat there a moment. Took a deep breath. Unbuckled her seatbelt.
"Stay away," she said, and her voice caught a little, on the words. "Stay
the fuck away from me. Forget it. Forget all of it." She was staring
down, at her feet. "This was a mistake. Christ. You bastard. For what
it's worth. I'm sorry. But you. You fucking idiot." And she looked up at
me, and her eyes were full of something dark and terrible. "If you drag
my sister into this I will fucking have your head."
And it was my turn to say nothing.
She opened the door. Got out. Stood there, in my shirt. Opened her
mouth as if to say something, and shivered, choking on whatever word it
might have been. Slammed the door shut.
Walked away, into the night.
I sat there, unable to think. Engine running. Lights shining. Nobody
home. The tape snapped to an end, flipped over. Harry Connick, Jr. again.
"Don't Get Around Much Anymore."
And after about two or three or maybe even four minutes of that, I put
the car in gear, and drove home.
One last thing to do, before I tried to sleep. Hanged for a penny, I
might as well be hanged for a fucking pound.
I'd found it on my second day in the house, clearing my uncle's papers
out of the room I was going to use as a study. Thought nothing of it, at
the time; an odd thing, a curiosity, a mystery never to be explained, now
that he was dead. I certainly wasn't going to ask Aunt Jean about it.
But everything is different now. To say the least.
So I opened up the storage closet under the stairs and used a
flashlight to find the box in question and dragged it out into the hall
and ripped it open and dug through slippery stacks of old papers,
flinging them out, left and right, manila folders flying, tossing an old
black binder over my shoulder for the sheer savage pleasure of throwing
something. Damaging something. My face blank, my mind as empty as
possible. If I'd come close to expressing what I'd been feeling, at that
moment, I'd have blasted myself, left behind a scorch mark in the wooden
floor, a few tendrils of greasy smoke curling in the air. God. Oh, God.
There.
It was, of course, a Polaroid photograph. Fifteen years old? Twenty? A
little discolored. A ring of something dark on the edge of the white
paper frame. A thumbtack hole at the top, a little ragged.
The man, there, face a little out of focus, looking away. My uncle.
Tony Poundstone. The girl, standing before him--and I could guess now she
wasn't wearing some sort of strapless top I couldn't see, I could
reasonably assume, having been there, that her body was as bare as her
shoulders. Her hair dark as it is now. Her face fifteen years younger,
twenty years younger, but still sharp. That look, in her eyes. The deer,
caught in the flash of the camera's bulb.
The mantel, behind them, with fewer candles. Burned into its front, a
little crudely, but competently enough, with one of those wood-burning
tools, the word:
CROATAN.
nicholas urfe
nickurfe@yahoo.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Nick/wwwure
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/
Crank letter quoted from "Men Can Have Babies" by David Linton, as
published in "Kooks: A Guide to the Outer Limits of Human Belief," ed. by
Donna Kossy. Inspiration for the Garden and for the Beaver Bear from
Delaware drawn from "Bulletins from the Underground City" by Linton
Robinson, as published in "The Stranger." Songs referenced include but
are not limited to: "Don't Get Around Much Anymore," Harry Connick, Jr.;
"If I Was Your Girlfriend," Prince; "Something for the Weekend," The
Divine Comedy; "Everybody Loves Me But You," Juliana Hatfield; "Bella
Neurox," by Miss Murgatroid and Petra Haden; "I'm In Love With a Girl,"
Big Star; "Getting Scared," Imogen Heap; "Professor Shaftenberg," Momus;
"When I Grow Up," Garbage; "Vanilla Jellaba," Muslimgauze; "Nemesis,"
Shriekback; title unknown, Keiko Yoshinari, from the Magic Knight
Rayearth soundtrack; "Roger Tessier," Spring Heel Jack; "Classy,"
Kenickie; "Sometime Later," Alpha; "What Do I Get," the Buzzcocks;
"Heaven," Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians; "Ooh La La," the Faces. And
"Lolita," of course, by the divine Nabokov.
Ask. Tell. Go. Do. Eat.
--
DICK. That happened in the reign of queen Dick, i.e. never: said of any
absurd old story.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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