	Koochy



From the outside, the squat was really no different from all the other houses that 
Janine and Edie had passed as they made their way from the tube station through the 
North London streets to the address they had been given. Perhaps it was slightly more 
dilapidated, but in the early evening dusk every house had a general air of dinginess, 
not improved by the rubbish blown along by the autumn breezes and the battered cars 
parked badly on the kerbside. But the evident proof that this was where the party was 
being held came from the thundering sound of drum and bass that echoed down the 
street and shook the glass in the windowpanes.

Janine and Edie were a little worried that they'd be turned away. After all, they 
hadn't been invited and they weren't at all sure they'd meet anyone they knew there, 
but there was no one guarding the partly open front door, so the bottle of cheap white 
wine that they'd bought (much against Janine's preference for wine with the proper 
certification of appelation controlee) wasn't actually needed as the all-important entry 
requirement. They pushed the door open to enter a long wide hallway where many 
other young people were lined against the peeling wallpaper, drinking from beer cans 
and passing around joints. Without showing any hesitation, they strode down the 
hallway beyond the staircase in the middle. Then, now well past anyone who might 
have seen their arrival, they too leaned against the wall to roll some tobacco in their 
rizlas and to take in the party at more leisure. The hard, thumping sounds of Dillinja 
boomed in their stomachs and ears, a tortuous driving beat that made them feel sharp 
and nasty almost immediately.

"Cool!" exclaimed Edie. 

"Ouai. Cool!" echoed Janine. "Ca marche bien. Where's the wine? I want a 
drink. And I want it now."

"Yeah," agreed Edie. "But, you know, just cool it. See what's going round." 
She gestured at a large fat seven skinner that was being passed from one toking guest 
to another. "If that ain't worth waiting for, I don't know what is."

Janine smelt the sweet odour as it wafted around her, the very smell already 
making her feel a little more languid and relaxed. It was so different in here from the 
wind-swept, lamplit streets outside, and she knew that after one toke that world would 
seem as distant as her own distant ville. And then, it was passed to her by a lanky mec 
with straggling hair over his face and to his collar, wearing a baggy dark brown tee 
shirt and small tinted steel frame glasses. She had been around enough to know that 
she didn't really want to taste the saliva that dampened the tip of the roach, so she 
cupped her fist and breathed deep through the cooling space it contained. It was strong 
stuff. Not black. Not resin at all. Probably skank. And it hit her instantly: a rush of 
that familiar taste tingling her cheeks and clicking her brain into gear. Merde! This 
was going to be a vachement cool gig: she could see that.

When Edie and Janine finally found their way into the dingy kitchen, at the 
back of the house, where all the alcohol was and where they could drop off the bottle 
they'd brought with them, what waiting for them was a real disappointment after the 
quite decent skank. The English really knew rien about alcohol. Their beer was too 
warm and too weak, and they had absolutely no idea about wine at all. Janine regarded 
the bottles lined up with growing disdain. Clearly cheapness, not qualite had been 
uppermost in the mind of whoever had bought all this shit. And not a decent French 
wine amongst them. Some New World stuff and some German Riesling. But so much 
beer, mostly in cans, only a few bottles, and most of these were lagers and bitters. 
Reluctantly, Janine poured a glass of piss-poor Chardonnay into a plastic cup and 
joined Edie as she floated out of the kitchen on her high-heel pumps with a can of 
McEwans in one hand and a rollie in the other. All the while, the sound of drum and 
bass shifted gear into some hard thumping pumping techno, with a wicked rhythm that 
almost curled up Janine's toes at every fourth emphatic beat.

Edie regarded Janine's expression as she looked disdainfully at the glass of 
wine she'd poured. She leaned over her friend, put an arm around her long thin neck, 
ran her fingers through her short raffish dark brown hair, and placed a kiss on her 
bright red lipsticked lips. Janine smiled back at Edie, whose dyed blonde hair was cut 
into a kind of bob and contrasted sharply with her dark eyebrows and deep brown 
eyes. Both girls were very thin and dressed similarly in a strange combination of the 
utilitarian - boots, baggy jackets and tights - and the fanciful - skirts, necklaces and tee 
shirts with the most plunging neckline that was legal. The cut of their tops was high 
enough to let the light catch the studs that shone on their hard, smooth bellies: a 
perfect compliment to the studs pierced through their labia lips.

"What you need, sweetie," remarked Edie, peppering her face with a multitude 
of soft kisses, "is something a lot better than Supermarket plonk. And, if I'm not 
mistaken, I think there might be someone here who can give us both just that."

Janine smiled conspiratorially, as Edie took her metal-bangled wrist in her 
hand and dragged her out of the kitchen, past the temptations of another roving joint, 
into the main room where the music was coming from. Merde Alors! These old 
Victorian houses had such enormous rooms. What use had they ever had for all that 
space? Now, of course, it made a very satisfactory dance floor, the ancient floorboards 
still able to support the weight of dozens of thumping feet, belonging to silhouetted 
figures illuminated by the lights the DJ had brought round for the gig. Behind the 
turntables and framed by the speaker stacks, the DJ was fumbling around in his boxes 
for twelve inch discs, while the lead from the pair of headphones attached to his ears 
looped toward his decks. When he stood up, spinning the vinyl in his fingers before 
placing it onto the rubber and then dropping the needle into its grooves, he briefly 
gazed around at the crowd, a broad manic smile on his face, while the techno beats 
pounded and thundered around him. 

Super! That smile was a sign. The faces lit up in the crowd of stomping 
dancers were even better evidence. Chemical bliss. Even with only a few sips of vin 
de Kwik-Save, the message of bliss was coming through the Progressive House pulse 
beats and Janine was already feeling more than ready. But, as usual, it was Edie who 
was the one to find the source of the wellspring and to partake of its flowing treasures. 
And in this case, the source was a young guy with hair so short it was almost blue and 
a capacious jacket with as many pockets as were humanly feasible. Including pockets 
hidden inside pockets. And then there were the set of pockets on his brown baggy, 
cotton trousers. Unlike everyone else in the room, he was sitting on a chair by the 
corner, about as far from the speakers as he could be, only occasionally tapping a foot 
to the frenetic beats, a smile of deep joy spread over his face, but with eyes as hard 
and sharp as a pair of knives. As usual, it was Edie, bolder than brass and twice as 
shiny, who zoomed straight onto this mec while Janine put a toe into the flowing 
water of driving beats. It was difficult to keep her steps restrained as the music 
swooped and dived around her, pulsating rhythms thundering into her stomach and 
pumping up her thighs. A strobe caught her in mid-glide, blue and orange and green 
against the peeling wallpaper, and then swooped down to catch Edie who was 
returning with a handful of goodies in little sealed-seam plastic bags.

"It's a bit of mix and match!" Edie yelled into Janine's ear, as she froze in 
mid-step to pick up the chemical delights. "Got some good stuff. Bit of speed and 
some Es. A tab if the mood takes you. And here," she tapped a pocket, "I've got some 
pure grade A skank. And all for not much outlay." She sighed. "These men they'll 
fucking give everything for a promise of a promise or a glimpse of a glimpse. But 
there ain't no stopping us now. Dive in for the start of the drip feed."

With that, she opened her mouth and dropped a few pills, not even bothering 
to check what they were. Janice kissed Edie on the cheek and followed suit, leaving 
half the stuff for later. This could be a lo-ong night ahead!

A brief peck was not enough. Janine took Edie's face in her hands and pushed 
it to her lips, her tongue slotted into Edie's mouth, and for a few ecstatic, liquid 
moments, the two of them kissed fully and slobberily, as the beat pushed up and up 
into the pit of their stomachs. Finally, building up enough tension to push the two girls 
apart. And then off with their inappropriately heavy jackets, the plastic bags and 
rolling tobacco transferred to the huge side-pockets of their trousers, and, then, with a 
whoop of excitement, the two of them were boogying and stomping and jumping and 
pumping to the pounding rhythms, two-stepping and jockeying to the shifting beats, 
sweat erupting from their foreheads and the top of the breasts. And then they 
communicated with facial expressions twisted and torn to the same shapes as the beats 
that carried their feet. C'est bonne! C'est sympa! C'est large! 

All around them the other figures were immersed in the same warming bath of 
the four to the floor. Men with their tops thrown off. Girls with the flimsiest of tops. 
And there (Merci ą Dieu!) one girl so taken with the sound that a loose breast had 
worked itself free of her skimpy top and was bouncing freely with each step and 
bounce. Janine twisted herself to face this glorious treat, a warm feeling building up 
from inside and already burning in her crotch. Jazz samples. Vocal samples. Phat 
beats. Squelching 303s. Twisted, byzantine bass, grinding through beats, scattered and 
angular in the Drum and Bass, plain and flat through the Hard House, bouncy and 
joyful over the Progressive House, fucked up and fucking glorious in the most wicked 
of Break Beats. She was truly lost in music. She was got down and dirty. Sweat 
cascading into the silver-studded recesses of her navel, and streaming down the 
outside of her thighs and the inside of her trousers.

Somewhere in the midst of this, the rush hit. And somehow everything was 
fine. And everyone was beautiful. And given the chance she would be everyone's and 
anyone's. Even perhaps with a man. And as she swivelled and turned, having long lost 
sight of Edie as the space around her swelled and shrunk with the patterns of her 
dancing, she saw in the corner a naked man's buttocks thrusting in and out while two 
bare thin legs of an equally naked woman were pinioned beneath him. Merde! It was 
going to be one of those kinds of parties. And why the fuck not? Her crotch ached 
with the thought of herself and Edie stretched out together, her tight small breasts 
against Edie's rounder, so warm bosom, hard nipple stroking on hard nipple, a 
cascade of joy dripping from between her legs. Oh Edie! Je t'aime! Je t'aime le plus 
grand!

But where was Edie? wondered Janine, spinning around on the axis of her left 
foot, then bringing her other foot down to complete the spin. Where was her bonne 
chatte? Ou est tu? Edie was gone. Nowhere. As she swirled, a man's face peered into 
her, a Christ-like bearded face with a smile of Christian love, and her mind was 
elsewhere as she pounded the beat with her dancing partner. Until the fade-in to some 
slower tempo movement slung her suddenly out of the room and into the heaving 
hallway. But where was Edie?

Janine wandered from room to room. Back to the kitchen where a whole group 
of men were gathered in black baggy tee shirts, swigging from bottles of beer and 
discussing politics. And up the stairs, where a couple were stretched: the man's hand 
inside the woman's blouse and the woman's hand clutching the hard rod in his trouser 
crotch. From room to room, where others were talking to or cuddling each other. Up 
another flight of stairs, past a queue by the loo, and three floors up, in this towering 
North London squat, where the low thumping sounds told her that she'd arrived 
outside the chill-out room. Tiens! She suddenly realised that she needed to chill out 
more than anything else. Sweat was plastering her short hair close to her scalp. She 
needed more skank. Or some charas. Or anything. She pushed open the door, letting 
out a large cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. A stereo was blaring out from some chill-
out CD, and all around her were slumped bodies, and a fortune in dope being passed 
from hand to hand. 

Janine slumped onto the first cushion she could see and took a long, long toke 
from the joint that was proffered to her. Despite the chemical confusion that tingled 
her senses, she was immediately jolted by the sensamerilla, and her head fell entirely 
into synch with the slow deep burning bass of the music. Most of the people around 
her were slumped in soporific languor, which was creeping up on her, as her 
unfocussed thoughts drifted with the breathy female vocals and she cast her eyes 
around her. Not everyone was similarly zonked. There were two or three couples in 
states of relative undress lost in another rhythm, clothes discarded or pulled down, as 
they lost themselves to their physical passion. 

One couple was particularly engrossed, lying on a mess of cushions and 
pillows and rugs just by the large uncurtained windows which looked out over the 
streets, and through which Janine could see the lights shining from the houses 
opposite, not all, she guessed, as happy as she was that this party was happening. A 
car drove by lighting up a room that was mostly dimly lit, and allowed Janine a closer 
look at the couple. The man's prick was visible from the balls to where it was 
thrusting into a sticky, gooey vagina, which was pumping up and down beneath. Long 
bare legs tapered to a pair of dark brown boots, while above a hairy arse trailed down 
long hairy legs to a pair of scuffed trainers. The girl was gasping and swooning as the 
man pushed into her, grunting from his own exertions. And where was Edie? 
wondered Janine. What she wouldn't do for a bit of lovemaking herself. Her soul, her 
heart, her body ached for love. Or at least sex.

Janine looked around at the other people, hoping to see Edie's blonde bob in 
one or other corner of the vast dimly lit room. She wasn't by the stereo where a guy 
was shifting through the collection of CDs. She wasn't at the window, where another 
guy had thrust his head out into the street, no doubt to cool off his drug-fevered brow. 
She wasn't the girl slumped against the wall fighting off unconsciousness with a half-
finished bottle of Stella Artois gripped to her lap. In fact, as Edie discovered with a 
shock, she was the one who was being fucked just by the window. 

This much was made clear, as the two shifted position, the prick briefly 
disengaged, so that Edie could get on top and squeeze it back into her cunt. And there 
she was, on top of a mec with black shoulder-length hair and a dark blue tee shirt. She 
was stripped to only her top, one of her gorgeous breasts loose and hanging free of its 
cradle, sweat pouring down the back of her neck, and gasping and panting and 
gasping, and occasionally giving vent to a shriek, as the passion of her love-making 
gripped her. 

Janine was stunned. There was her beloved, with a man she'd never met 
before; doing to her what she thought was reserved for her alone. She knew every 
tangled sweaty hair of that pussy. She knew the length and depth of that firm hard 
clitoris. She knew every serrated nobble of those nipples. She could even taste that 
vagina in her tongue, the memory so strong and intimate and familiar that it burnt 
more powerful than the odour of cannabis smoke and nicotine. 

Should she intervene? Was that a cool thing to do? She was sure it wasn't. 
And what was worse, it would not only piss off Edie who had always made clear to 
her that she swang both ways, but it might invite the unwelcome attention of her male 
lover. She looked at the prick as it thrust in and out, remembering its long, hard pink 
length in that brief moment when the two had shifted position. She didn't want any of 
that, merci. Her few times with some brutish or incompetent man, with all that hairy 
flesh and sinewy muscle and flabby stomach, had convinced her that there was only 
one kind of sex meant for her and it wasn't with a man.

The mere thought of it disgusted her so much, that she cast aside the joint 
she'd received only half a toke ago to the small, dark-eyed man to her side, and 
plunged herself out of the comforting, relaxing ambience of the chill-out room, back 
into the merciless corridors of the rest of the house. Only this time, feeling ever so 
much more lonely and vulnerable. Her Edie! Son Amour! How could she?

She was now directionless and lost. Somehow the dance room no longer 
seemed inviting. The horrors of the beer-swilling men in the kitchen seemed even less 
appealing than before. And it wasn't at all obvious what she should be looking for. 
The chill-out room had seemed perfect, but now it was the one room she most did not 
want to be in. She dashed up and down the stairs, squeezing past the crowd queued up 
by the toilets, occasionally pushing open doors to see whether there was anywhere 
else she could hang out. But it seemed that every bedroom was occupied. And quite 
clearly there was some vachement hot shit going round. In almost every room, there 
was some kind of sexual activity. Men and women cuddling. Men and women kissing. 
Men fucking women. And in one room, the most horrible sight of all, men fucking 
men. She had seen quite enough penises in her life, and she didn't really want to have 
to waste much more time on them. Wherever she went, however, the sound of the 
dance music thundering from the dance room was pumped and piped around the 
place, so unless she went back to the top floor she was unable to escape the block 
busting beats that were being laid down by the DJ. He was clearly getting harder and 
more frantic. Mauro Piccotto, Tony de Vit, pump that pussy. Hard House Heaven. 
Yeh Eh! Here it Comes. Ohh Yeah! Ca plein pour moi.

But Janine just wasn't in the mood. At last, she gravitated to a point on the 
landing of the stairs, cigarette dangling from the forefingers of one hand, while other 
guests wandered up and down the stairs beside her, her other hand pressed against her 
forehead, lost in thought and reflection, unsure whether to come or to go, to dance or 
to rest, to wait or to depart. Without her Edie, she was feeling abandoned and through 
the haze of serotonin, nicotine and dope, unsure just what she should be thinking at 
all. Her eyes were unfocused, her thoughts were scattered and her cigarette kept going 
out.

"You got a light?" suddenly asked a kindly voice. 

Janine looked up with her box of Swan Vestas pulled out of a large pocket 
from her trousers. "Bien sūr! Ouai!" she said passing the box toward the proffered 
Marlboro Lite at whose filtered tip were some gorgeously red lipsticked lips, and a 
thin face with sparkling light green eyes. Janine was so taken by her eyes and the 
classically straight nose, that she only belated became aware that here was a girl who 
had dispensed with the need for hair-care products and had opted instead for a clean 
shaven skull, where only at this late hour was the stubble starting to show through.

"Hey. You're French or Belgian or something, aren't you?"

"French," corrected Janine, slightly offended that anyone might think she was 
some kind of Walloon speaker. If her ear had been more attuned to English, she'd 
have noticed that this girl had a Geordie accent scattered with evidence of her time in 
London.

"Well! Whatever!" the girl sniffed. "Anyway, I'm Molly and I live here."

"So this is your party."

"Well, our party. I just live here. But it's fucking kicking, ain't it? It's the 
biz!" She punctuated her assertion with a two-armed wave in the air, her face gurning 
in a way that made Molly seem if anything that much more gorgeous to Janine. "Hey! 
What I wouldn't do for some blow. You ain't got some shit on you?"

"I got some skank."

"Oh Wey-Hey! Not that fucking cool shit I've been sampling all evening! Hey 
girl. Let's go up to my room and roll a fat one. You on?"

"Bien sūr! That would be ferking great!"

"You bet," agreed Molly, taking Janine's hand in hers. "Let's hope there ain't 
a fucking orgy in there."

Molly's room was small and thankfully empty, although the discarded condom 
and the scattered ash was indication that it hadn't been so all evening. Janine studied 
the posters and magazine cuttings that covered most of the cream-painted walls. Molly 
was a girl who liked films. But she also had a taste for flyers, which were blu-tacked 
to the wall. Some of these were taken from phone booths and were rather less 
imaginative than those advertising club nights. Molly sat cross-legged on the futon 
that was on the floor by the window, just by her stereo and a battered old armchair. 

"Where's the gear? I can roll a real mean one."

"Here!" said Janine, tossing Molly a plastic bag which she'd stored in her 
trouser pocket. She watched Molly roll her joint, while she slumped on the other end 
of the futon, and admired her small lean hands at the end of long bare arms, as her 
fingers teased out the skank to tubular dimensions. She wore a sleeveless top with no 
bra under which her breasts could easily be seen and a long thin waist to her baggy 
purple shorts. She had large pendulous hooped earrings in well-studded ears and 
Janine caught a glimpse of the stud through her tongue.

And then, with a sprinkling of Marlboro Lite and a twist at the end, Molly lit 
the short stubby joint and inhaled long and deep. "Fuck! This is fucking A!" She 
exclaimed, passing it roachwards towards Janine. She took a long deep toke herself, 
and pulled herself up the length of the futon to slump, supported by an elbow, right 
next to Molly. The girls passed the joint backwards and forwards to each other, 
chatting about clubs they'd been to, excesses that they'd enjoyed and a time in Ibiza 
when the two of them had been there at the same time but of course had never met. 
They'd even been at the Cafe Del Mar on the same night, and Molly had one day even 
ventured into Manumission. "I'm told it's not as good as it used to be," Molly told 
her. "No fucking dwarves fucking anymore."

"Is that so?" contemplated Janine, stubbing out the roach and admiring 
Molly's long thin arms with their scattering of moles and the fading trace of summer 
tan. Molly regarded her, and then without warning she plunged her face into Janine's, 
put her hand behind her neck where her hair was at its shortest, and thrust a tongue 
into Janine's mouth. Although taken aback, Janine was instantly receptive. They 
plunged warm tongue and liquid lips together, Janine glorying in the curious and 
erotic sensation of running her fingers over the stubble of Molly's scalp. Her other 
arm caressed Molly's slim waist: so hard and firm with not even a hint of extraneous 
fat.

"Oh fuck! What the fuck!" gasped Molly, suddenly pushing Janine off and 
pulling off her top while the echoing sounds of techno thundered about them. "Yeah 
Hey! Let the Rhythm take you! Into the Heart of the Bass!" Molly cried, her breasts 
loose and perky, her nipples hard and excited. 

Janine knew what to do. She pulled off her jacket and top, and, just in case 
Molly might think a kiss and cuddle would be enough, she pulled down her trousers 
and knickers, revealing the full glory of her tangled pubic hair, a mass of dark brown, 
longer than the hair on her head, which still couldn't hide the swollen lips of her 
vagina. Molly grinned. "You know what you like, don't you?" she commented, 
pulling down her shorts and whatever else she had inside to reveal that it wasn't just 
her head that she shaved. Her crotch was, if anything, smoother than her head, and 
Janine noticed, with a great thundering of her heart, that she had a stud and ring on her 
labial lips more pronounced than the quite modest ones she and Edie had got in a mad 
careless moment on their Ibiza holiday.

"You too!" smiled Molly, stroking Janine's lips with her hand. "What's yours 
taste like?" With that she dropped down her head between Janine's thighs and 
wiggled her tongue around the lips and occasionally nipping at her long hairs. All the 
while, Janine stroked Molly's naked head, while stroking one of her long thin nipples 
on her otherwise rather small left breast. It tickled but it was fun. And then Molly's 
tongue went straight inside her and Janine could feel that tongue stud within her, 
occasionally clashing against her vaginal stud as it licked and probed.

And soon, it wasn't long, she and Molly had moved themselves around so that 
the lips of Janine's mouth were pursed to the bare lips of Molly's crotch. Her crotch 
with its bare skin tasting somehow sharper, maybe more acid, than Edie's dark brown 
patch. Janine just loved the uninterrupted stretch of flesh from one set of lips to the 
other. How could there be so much luscious flesh? Her fingers joined in the probing, 
easing themselves surreptitiously into the folds of Molly's cunt, while below, with a 
sensation of recognition that made her gasp, she felt Molly's fingers poke not only 
into her own moistness, but also to explore her puckered anus, a place where Edie was 
usually so reluctant to touch and which she now knew she wanted to know more of in 
future. In answer, she took a finger to her mouth, licked its length so that a dollop of 
saliva trailed down its length to her knuckle and eased this into Molly's own arse, 
noting with satisfaction Molly's own puff of pleasure.

The futon was hard and firm and warm, the sheets pushed about by the girls' 
flailing legs, as they rolled over and over, flesh sliding on flesh, the sweet taste of 
sweat trickling down the skin and into Janine's mouth. And then mouth to mouth 
again, hands pressed against crotch, nipple hard on nipple. All around them, the beat 
continued thumping and crashing and swooping, taking on shapes and patterns which 
in Janine's mind was matched with her passion and ecstasy, the rush of her pill-taking 
returning to her and causing a fresh re-tingling of the skin. Above them, Janine could 
see the soft eyes of Daniel Auteil from a poster for a movie she only knew in its 
original French. Occasionally, the lights of a passing car would light up a room 
otherwise lit only by a weak 40-watt bulb. 

And again. Mouth back on crotch, the two of them gasping and sweating and 
slobbery. The tastes, the smells, so animal, so vital, so in tune. Sometimes, Janine 
would take Molly's hard nipples in her mouth, tasting sweat and navigating the 
contours of the hard reddish skin of the aureole of motherhood. And then again that 
studded tongue in her mouth, where she could explore in detail the hard, sweet metal 
with her own tongue and could just about detect the inside of the hole through which 
the stud protruded.

As the two collapsed, after how many minutes, hours, eternities, Janine didn't 
know, she regarded Molly's room. The battered wardrobe rescued from a skip. The 
line of books and CDs along the wall. The stacks of magazines. The movie posters 
and club flyers. Already she felt that this was homely and comforting. This was, she 
knew, thoughts of Edie and her own heterosexual flings forgotten, this was a room 
she'd get to know much much better in the future.








