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From: Nicholas Urfe <nickurfe@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} James 05 2/3 [Urfe] Ff, fM, mF, ff, Mm, fMm, Mf, voy, hints of others
Date: Sat, 24 Jun 2000 07:10:01 -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 2/3)
What does one wear to take it to the next level?
I settled on black. Black cotton pants. Black turtleneck, it still
being chilly in June in the evenings. A nice khaki shirt unbuttoned over
it all.
"You look terribly dot com," she said, in her capris, her halter,
eminently fuckable again, and not just freshly fucked.
"And you look like a dot com slut," I said.
"As long as we're together," she said, taking my arm.
"You going to be cold in just that?"
"If I am," she said, snuggling up against me so that we almost
tripped, "then, ha, then you can be all chivalrous and lend me your
shirt. You nice guy, you."
She sang along with Nicky's tape as we drove.
"Trying hard to
Fit among you
Floating out to wonderland--take a right--
Unprotected
God, I'm pregnant
Damn the consequences
When I grow up, I'll be stable!
When I grow up, I'll turn the tables! Left, left, take that left
right there!"
We were deep in the south side of town, where the lakes begin, where
the roads twist and turn around houses that tend to sell for a lot more
than their physical presence would suggest, whose driveways were not made
for the SUVs that fill them to overflowing. "You might want to stop
singing along," I said, braking too hard and just making the left in
question, "and pay more attention to where the fuck we're going." I poked
along, trying to make sure we were on a street, not a cul-de-sac, or
somebody's goddamn driveway. Houses were thinning on either side; we were
approaching one of the lakes. "I'll never find my way out of here."
"Make a wrong turn," she said, "and I won't either. We'll be stuck
with each other, forever. Wait!"
"What?"
"We're here. I think. Yes. We're here."
"You sure?"
"It's been a while. And I never had to give directions before."
I pulled over to the side of the road, behind a battered Citroen. We
got out. There wasn't a house in sight, but there were lights, down below
us, through the trees, the sound of music, drums, something at once
frenetic and laid back, Middle Eastern. Laughter. Jessie took my hand,
and hers was warm and damp with sweat and her face was serious in the
dying sunlight. "Look. We won't be here long. Just watch. Don't do
anything. Don't say anything. Don't ask any questions. You're with me,
okay? That's all anybody needs to know."
And she led me down, through the trees.
It was a houseboat.
We broke out of the trees on the lakeshore, a poor cousin of one of
Frank Lloyd Wright's houses off to our left, weirdly floating in the dim
twilit air, the sunset dying a bloody death in front of us, with those
streaks of lavender and yellow and even green that look so unreal, and
there, on the gunmetal water, was a square little houseboat. It had been
white, once, I think. The music was pouring from a couple of speakers on
what I guess was the bow (it seems absurd to apply nautical terms to that
little tub). The only person I could see clearly stood by them: an
enormous man in a billowy Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned over his hairy
belly, his thinning curly hair pulled back in a club-like ponytail. His
eyes could only see Jessie as we picked our way down the rocky slope.
Laughter broke out, suddenly, cruel, triumphant. Someone wailed. I
couldn't make out the words. The enormous man didn't seem perturbed.
"Jessie?" I said.
"Shut up," she said. She took my hand, looked me in the eyes. "Just
don't embarrass me. Okay?" She leaned up, planted a quick kiss on my
cheek (a hint of her tongue, licking lightly). Then led me, pulling me by
my hand as she scampered up the gangplank. I say "gangplank"; it was more
like a long rope bridge with some planks to give it stability. I nearly
stumbled following her up, but she didn't let go, and I'd no sooner set
foot on the houseboat than she'd yanked me into the den.
The smell of it, the air, hit me first, like a smack to the face. Pot,
cloying, thick. Incense clashing with it, their smoky skirmishes twirling
lazily through the air, blurring everything out of focus. Musk, the smell
of old sex, at once animal and clinical, undercut with the cool bleach
aroma of drying semen, the whole of it spiced with urine; someone had
pissed in a corner somewhere. Other things I didn't try to hard to
identify. A couple of kids maybe Jessie's age, a boy and a girl, the both
of them dressed only in baggy blue jeans riding low on their hips (him,
baggy boxers; her, yellow bikini panties) and, in his case, a black
baseball cap with the word "Skunkworks" stenciled on it, were crouched
around this thing, like a hookah out of the Jetsons, a gleaming stainless
steel tower with startling orange plastic hoses coming out of its base.
The girl, I noted, had a vaguely circular tattoo between her small, flat
breasts. I couldn't make it out. A third kid came up, wearing only a gold
chain around his waist and a goofy grin, and dropped a vaguely familiar
silvery canister into the central tower, and then dropped himself into
the other boy's lap. Boys and girl grabbed pipes, stuck them in their
mouths, the naked kid leaned over and pushed a plunger on top of the
tower, wssssht! and they all got rather more giddy.
A fucking hookah for restaurant-sized nitrous oxide cans. I turned to
look at Jessie. Who wasn't there.
But. On this ratty, half-collapsed sofa beside me was a woman I
recognized, who does the weather breaks on the local WB affiliate. Not
quite pulling off the Catholic schoolgirl look, her blouse knotted
midriff-baring Britney style, passed out cold. A girl maybe thirteen
years old was kneeling beside her and drawing a psychotically involved
design on said midriff with a red felt-tip pen, starting in the vicinity
of the navel and spiraling out with strange, jagged eructations whose
logic I couldn't grasp without more study. Which I wasn't inclined to
pursue; the girl glared up at me with wildly feral eyes, and I didn't
like the looks of the dark, crusty stuff smeared down the front of her
cropped baby T and on along her bare belly and thighs.
"Look," said a soft voice. "Look."
You ever see a painting called, I think, "Wet Angel"? This crappy bit
of late Victorian drawing room--well, porn, really. Which is readily
available these days in the frame and print shop of any suburban mall,
Lord knows why.
The Wet Angel was standing in the doorway leading down to the bowels
of the ship. Sans wings.
I was maybe the only one in the room looking, but hey. Tracklights
were shining like little spotlights and he stood there, legs canted just
so, one of them in a neon-pink fishnet thigh-high. Arms just so. His
cheeks, innocent of all but the barest peach fuzz, below eyes that looked
out into the room with an inarticulate plea, "Please..." over lips too
full for a boy that age. He even had the coiled, curly blond hair, the
hair nobody has these days, fucking ringlets tumbling down to his
shoulders. Though the illusion was spoiled by its not having been washed
in a few days. And the Wet Angel in the painting doesn't have an almost-
erection bobbing below its belly, to say nothing of a neon-pink fishnet
stocking. And it doesn't spoil things by grinning suddenly, uncertainly,
and wobbling on its feet, bouncing off the doorjamb, going, "Whooaaa..."
and giggling, an unpleasant echo of the laughter we'd heard, coming down.
Jessie?
So I'm chicken. I ducked back out the hatch, onto the deck. Music and
enormous guy to my left. Heck. I headed right, towards the, heh, stern.
Blessedly empty. I sat there, on a low bench, and directed my roaring
mind to take a lesson from its tranquil serenity. Don't think. Don't ask.
Don't do anything. And for God's sake, don't embarrass her. Just get the
hell out, as soon as possible.
The music changed with a whip-snap snare kick to snarling guitars and
computerized drums, which prompted a general "Woo hoo!" from inside and
out. The houseboat began to shiver in time to the pounding beat, and I
could hear them, faintly, drunken, high, yelling along with the chorus:
"Priests and cannibals
Prehistoric animals
Everybody happy as the dead come home!
Big black nemesis
Parthenogenesis
No one move a muscle as the dead come home!"
Which might have been why I missed the coming of the enormous man
until his dark bulk loomed around the hatch, and it was too late to go
anywhere without it looking like I was running away.
He shuffled up to sit next to me on the bench, his breath shallow and
hoarse with the effort, a vaguely asthmatic wheeze. "You're, uh, you're
here with Jessie. Right."
"Right," I said.
"Getting a little too old for this stuff. She is, I mean."
I had no idea what to say to that. Don't ask. Don't do anything. Look
at his Hawaiian shirt, which is covered with skeletons coupling in a wide
variety of positions.
"And you've never been here before. Hey. Hey!"
He was yelling past me, over my shoulder. I looked. I could just see a
man there, bigger, if possible, than the enormous man beside me, standing
in a gap in the trees, just barely visible in the lights that spilled
from the houseboat.
"Get the fuck out of here!" the enormous man next to me yelled.
"Fuckin' Beaver Bear! Fuckin' troll! Get! You know the Hyatt Bridge?"
That last to me. I nodded. "He's one of the advertisers there."
"Advertisers?" I said.
"You ever see the graffiti down there? I like young pussy, fresh
pussy, twelve-year-old, ten-year-old, six-year-old cunt, ooh. Call me.
Scribble your name and age in the second stall from the left in the
women's room at The Square and I will find you. That sort of shit. Like
anybody ever answers 'em. Christ. But he must get a kick out of it,
because the Beaver Bear from Delaware is all about the Hyatt Bridge. And
ever since he found out about this place he can't stay away. Piss off!"
I looked. The Beaver Bear was gone.
"So you, ah," I said, turning back to the enormous man. "You look
after this place?"
"Much as anyone can. When I'm not teaching Earth Sciences. Place has
been going on forty, forty-five years. Mostly takes care of itself. The
Garden of Do-As-You-Please. Croatan."
"Croatan?" I said.
He nodded. "Hey, hey Kirsten!"
Kirsten, presumably, was the girl staggering across the gangplank,
heading home. Presumably. "What!" she yelled, resentful of the
interruption.
"Watch it! Beaver Bear's out and about!"
She turned to look up into the trees, grabbing her crotch and
thrusting it up and out. "Hey! Hey, you fucking creep! Come and get it,
you fucking creep!"
"You should go find Jessie, you know," he said.
"If she's getting too old for this stuff," I said, "then what the hell
am I doing here?"
"Shit," he said, grinning. "She asked you, didn't she? Go on. Don't
poop the party."
"Not exactly my speed," I murmured.
"It's like any party," he said. "You show up, you feel out of place,
you grab a drink and find a dark corner, and then you start to warm up to
it. Next thing you know you're in the thick of it, time of your life,
never want it to end. Then it does."
"What about you?" I asked, shifting my weight. Was I about to get up?
I was. Jessie. The Wet Angel. Heck, nitrous. Why not.
"Oh," he said. "Never. I just stay out here. Minute I start diddling
something in there, well, I'd start playing favorites. Grading on a
curve. Ugly. Besides," he said, looking off into the deepening night.
Sigh. "I mostly just keep to myself, these days. Some connections it's
better to leave to the abstract. Don't try to actualize them. You know?"
"I might," I said.
cont'd--
nicholas urfe
nickurfe@yahoo.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Nick/wwwure
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/
--
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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