Pissing in a River

by Lorrie Sprecher

  I would have laughed if she hadn’t been upset. “I like it when you call me scrummy. You don’t have to deliver anything.”

  “I can’t keep leading you on like that when I can’t—you know.”

  “Honestly, Melissa, you aren’t leading me anywhere I don’t want to go. Will you please stop?”

  “Anybody else would’ve gone spare by now.”

  “I’m not like everybody else.”

  “This is the first time you’ve seen me starkers,” Melissa said thoughtfully.

  “I know,” I said, water running down my face. Her nipples puckered in the spray. “You’ve got lovely Bristols.”

  She lowered her eyes. I held her against my chest and heard the beautiful, melodic dirge “Ride With Me” by the Lemonheads, from when they were still a punk band, in my head. “‘Jesus rides with me,’” I sang. I ended on the lines, “‘He’s in your hair. / He’ll forgive me my pain.’” I ran my hand through Melissa’s dark, wet hair. She kissed me, the shower spray drizzling between us. I could feel the warmth coming off her body like steam.

  “Will you forgive me my pain?” Melissa asked.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  She helped me pull off my drenched, heavy clothes.

  “Ugh.” I peeled off my bra. “I wouldn’t give a bra the time of day if it weren’t for boxing.” I threw it over the shower curtain, and it made a splat on the floor. I watched the water travel in rivulets down Melissa’s smooth skin. “You’re so beautiful I can barely breathe.”

  “Stop.” She looked away from me.

  “Why? I’m just telling you how I feel.”

  “It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Sweetie, face yourself. You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

  “Just accept the compliment. It’s alright to be beautiful in front of me. You don’t have to be uncomfortable.”

  Melissa raised her eyes and took me in. “You’re lovely,” she whispered solemnly. I wanted to put my mouth on her breasts and gently kiss each nipple, but I didn’t want to freak her out.

  We got out of the tub and into her bed, snuggling under the covers. “This is the first time we’ve managed to be naked in bed together,” I said.

  Melissa joked, “C’mon, let’s be having ya.”

  I laughed and pressed her against me. I felt her nipples touching mine and stopped breathing. Her muscles tensed so I hugged her, looking at the view of her broad, lightly-freckled back and strong shoulders.

  “I’m glad you think I’m beautiful,” Melissa said shyly.

  “He didn’t rape you because of what you look like,” I said. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  I held her and wondered what I would do if we ever ran into her rapist. I imagined the color running out of Melissa’s face and not knowing what to do.

  I remembered how in ACT UP, at one of our meetings in the old church in downtown DC, someone had asked us to do an action in solidarity with people with AIDS in prison. Some people jumped right on it but a few of us, mostly the women, were uneasy. Finally an HIV-positive ACT UP bloke stood up and said what we’d been too intimidated by political correctness to say. He had AIDS, was poor, didn’t have health care, but he hadn’t killed anyone. Then I said my solidarity depended on what people had actually done. It was on a case-by-case basis for me. I couldn’t feel solidarity with rapists. After the meeting, we had to run to our cars because of the large rats that skittered out of the gutters and chased us across the road. And I thought about the wars we were fighting at home.

  I’m sure that forgiveness is good for the soul, and I’d like to try it sometime. But some things I’m not ready to let go of yet, and I’m not sure I’m supposed to let go of them. I’m still angry and can only hope that my anger continues to spur me into action. I’m still loyal to what happens here on earth, even if it means spending another forty years wandering in the desert like Moses. In sight of the Promised Land, but unable to enter.

  TRACK 40 Joe Where Are You Now?

  Christmas was on its inevitable way. Fairy lights dotted London. We got a Christmas tree at the Columbia Road Flower Market. It was a beautiful sight, dark-green trees and multitudes of vibrant flowers overflowing all the pitches. I particularly loved the brilliant lavenders and blues.

  The Nirvana compilation CD with the studio version of Kurt’s last song “You Know You’re Right” was finally released. Courtney Love and the remaining Nirvanas, Krist and Dave, had been fighting over the song for years. I’d heard it on a bootleg. At the time, the only known version was from a concert in Chicago in 1993 and was referred to as “Autopilot.” And Courtney had done a version of it on MTV Unplugged. Later I found a live, electric version of it on a website in Russia. It was a breathtaking song.

  I screamed along, “‘Things have never been so swell! I have never failed to fail! PAI-AI-AI-AIN!’” At first I’d thought Kurt was yelling, “I have never failed to feel,” which seemed true. Melissa downloaded a copy of the video that went with the song. It looked like Kurt was performing it, even though there was no known video of him ever performing that version. He smashed his guitar. He leaped into the amplifiers. He threw himself into the drum kit. He spun himself around like a sprinkler with a spurting bottle of champagne.

  I came home from busking to find Melissa looking upset in the sitting room. “Have you heard?” she asked. “Joe Strummer’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Joe Strummer. He’s just died.”

  “He can’t have. I don’t believe it.”

  Joe Strummer from the Clash was our hero and the hero of the political punk movement. We rang Nick, and she came over wearing her red Brigade Rosse T-shirt, the same one Joe Strummer washes out by hand in a hotel basin in the film Rude Boy. Stunned, we listened to the 101ers album Elgin Avenue Breakdown, singing along with “Keys to your Heart” and “Motor Boys Motor.” Then we played every Clash album in chronological order. On vinyl, as they were originally released. I thought my heart would crack when we listened to Give ’Em Enough Rope, especially during “Guns on the Roof,” “Stay Free,” “Cheapskates” and “All the Young Punks.”

  We got out Pennie Smith’s classic book of excellent Clash photographs. “Remember how we used to live by this book?” I said, as we paged through it.

  “To Joe, a great man of integrity,” Melissa said, and we toasted him with cups of tea. We watched Rude Boy, Westway to the World and some high-quality Clash concerts Melissa had downloaded from the Internet.

  We had a low-key Christmas, getting ourselves the Jam box set Direction Reaction Creation, the four-CD Jellyfish Fan Club box set and the hardcover edition of Kurt Cobain’s journals. Its cover was a photo of one of Kurt’s red spiral notebooks, and each page was a photocopy of the actual notebook page. I’d found Mexican milagros on Portobello Road, religious charms for healing and protection, and made us necklaces out of body parts like hands, feet, eyes, breasts, lips and hearts to keep us safe. I called them “OCD on a necklace.”

  TRACK 41 Hold Me Closer

  “There’s a song, reminds me of you,” I said. Melissa had just come in from work and was still in her coat and scarf. I was sitting on the bed downstairs playing my guitar after a full day of busking.

  “What is it? You’ve already told me about ‘Pissing in a River.’”

  “It’s the Jam, ‘Tales From the Riverbank.’” I sang, “‘This is a tale from the water meadows / trying to spread some hope into your heart.’ You smell good,” I said, as Melissa sat next to me.

  “Why does it remind you of me?” she asked.

  I continued singing, “‘True it’s a dream mixed with nostalgia, / but it’s a dream that I’ll always hang onto, that I always run to. / Won’t you join me by the riverbank?’”

  “That reminds you of me?”<
br />
  “I run to you like water runs downhill.”

  “I see we’re feeling dead romantic today.” She lay back on the bed, her coat flapping open to reveal her black V-neck jumper and the white collar of her T-shirt. I bunged myself down beside her. She pulled me on top of her and wrapped her arms around my waist. I sighed with contentment and buried my face in her shoulder. When I kissed her neck, I heard her take in her breath sharply.

  She grabbed my head, the yellow-and-red, studded punk bracelet flashing on her wrist, looked intently into my eyes, and kissed me hard on the mouth. I helped her pull off her coat, and she threw her black, white, and gray scarf on the floor. As she rolled on top of me, I slipped one hand beneath her jumper and T-shirt and felt her cool, soft skin. We snogged for hours, only taking breaks to go to the loo. I felt as though I’d managed to let go of the knowledge of evil and sneak back into the elusive Garden of Eden.

  I came back from the bog and noticed it was nearly midnight. Melissa was lying on the bed, her hair seductively disheveled, one hand resting on her stomach and the other behind her head. She smiled at me then sat up and pulled off her jumper, making her thick hair stick up. She was wearing a white Jam T-shirt that read “Down In The Tube Station At Midnight.”

  I curled up next to her with my head on her shoulder. “How’d you get to be so great?”

  “That is not a serious question.”

  “It is. Who were you when you were growing up?”

  “I was just a regular person. I don’t know why you think I’m anyone special.”

  I looked at her upraised brows. “You know you are. You must know.”

  “Oh, love.” She looked at me kindly. “You just wanna shag me.”

  “What?” I sputtered.

  “You’re like all the rest,” Melissa teased, putting her arms around me.

  “Well, you’re very shaggable.”

  “Still?”

  “Mm-hmm. Very. Always.” She looked sad when I said that. “Hey,” I said, sensing her intensity, “you don’t have anything to prove.”

  “I know,” she said.

  I slid my hands underneath her T-shirt and felt her shoulder blades. I was a ship slipping into the water, navigating by the stars. “I feel very protective of you.”

  “I know.” Melissa stroked my hair. “Come here, love.” She pulled me closer. “Make love to me,” she whispered, biting softly on my earlobe.

  “Are you sure?” I asked in alarm. I’d been waiting so long for this moment. I took a deep breath and tried not to panic. “You know you can tell me to stop if you want me to, right?”

  “Yeah, I do. Do you know you can tell me if this is something you don’t want to do right now? I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. It just came out. There’s no pressure. I just—” She looked at me with a serious expression. “I ache for you. That sounds really daft, but I do. Tonight. While we were kissing. I truly ache for you.”

  Ever since I’d met Melissa, my whole being had been saying, God, you can keep all the other women. I only want this one. If you’ll let me be with her forever, I’ll never ask to be with anyone else. I know eternity is a long time, but I felt I’d measured it with my heart. All my life, I’d been measuring and waiting. All this time, I’d weighed Melissa in my soul. She was the person I thought I’d only meet after I was dead and in some other, better life. I kissed her and laid my hand gently on her stomach. When I touched her breast, she gasped, “Oh, love,” and held me tighter. I lifted up her Jam T-shirt and put my mouth on one of her nipples. She tasted so good and felt so amazing against my tongue. I got lost in kissing her breasts, carried away by her sounds and her breathing.

  I brought my mouth back up to hers, one hand beneath her head, the other caressing her breasts. Then I ran my hand down the length of her body and rested it on the crotch of her faded black trousers. She groaned and moved against me. Listening to her gave me a sharp pleasure. I stroked her between her legs, feeling her grow wetter through the denim. I rested my hand on the button fly of her jeans and whispered, “Are you sure it’s alright?”

  “Yes.” She kissed me hard.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered with her lips still on mine, “I love you so much.” It felt as intense as the release of orgasm to finally be able to say that to her. Slowly I unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off her body. Then I sat her up and took off her T-shirt. I’d thought a lot about how I wanted to make love to her the first time. I wanted to make sure she stayed connected to me and didn’t let her mind drift off into scary places. I wanted to take my time. I didn’t know how she liked to be touched, but I wanted to be very gentle unless she signaled that she needed something else. I kissed her stomach and ran my tongue along the edges of her knickers. I touched her with my fingers through the material, making sure she was really ready before finally taking them off.

  “Take off your clothes too,” Melissa said hoarsely.

  “I feel incredibly connected to you,” I murmured. “Your skin is so soft.” I kissed her shoulder. When I finally felt her clitoris with my finger, I gasped at the intensity of it. It was like putting my finger in an electric socket, only in a good way.

  “Oh God,” Melissa groaned, “I’m so sensitive to your touch.” I moved lower. Gently, I put my mouth on her. “Oh, honey, you feel so good. Oh, God.” She moaned with each caress, her clitoris under my tongue like a pebble. I knew that I would always feel its imprint there. I stroked her in a circular motion, enfolding her as her sounds became louder and more urgent. I thought I would die from pleasure when she said my name. Her hands gripped my hair.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Melissa said, “what are you doing to me?” She reached for my hands and squeezed them tight. I pressed myself into her, feeling her orgasm. I caressed her as she continued to come, making louder, higher-pitched sounds. I stayed where I was, kissing her, until she tugged on my head to make me stop. “Mm, love,” she gasped, hugging me, “oh my God. I didn’t know I could feel like that. I didn’t know I could ever feel safe enough to feel like that. God, I can’t move.”

  “You don’t have to move. You don’t have to do anything. I’m glad I made you feel safe.” I touched then gently kissed her face. “I will never let you go.”

  “Was I alright?”

  “You don’t need to ask me that.”

  “But I never—” She blushed. “I was never so—vocal before. Now I’ve said it, I feel a right prat.”

  “You never have to be embarrassed in front of me. God,” I said, “I am so in love with you. I never would have let this happen if I wasn’t. You must know that.” Melissa started to cry and nestled her face in my neck. I rubbed her back soothingly. “I love the way you sound. I love everything about you.” I could feel my eyes heavy with love when I looked at her. “You’re so sweet when you come. Being intimate with you is so—intimate.”

  “I want to make love to you,” Melissa said, drying her eyes with her fingers.

  “Not now, baby.” I kissed her, running my fingers through her lustrous hair. “I just want to hold you and make you feel warm and safe.” As Melissa started to protest, I said, “You’ve been on edge for weeks. Let me do this one thing right.” I stroked her hair. “Please let me hold you until you fall asleep. It would make me very happy.” I pulled the blankets over her. She rested her hand gently on my face and closed her eyes. “My sweet, sweet baby,” I said.

  TRACK 42 George Bush Fuck You

  The following day, we watched George W. Bush declare war on Iraq on the telly. I taped it and wrote a song called “War Eve,” integrating parts of his God-bless-America-and-all-who-defend-her-and fuck-everyone-else crap into it.

  That night, I was too agitated about the war to even get in touch with my normal sexual anxieties. We were still shy around each other sexually and wanted the mood to be right. I lay in bed and could not relax. I kept thinking about my RAWA friends. Two of
them had come to my town on a speaking tour of the US to raise money for RAWA. We spent an evening together so I could help them polish up a speech they were giving in front of a Jewish group the following day. I begged them to eat dinner, forcing them to look at a takeaway menu. They wanted to try chicken pizza, which turned out to be a big favorite. And I finally persuaded them to give me fifteen minutes to drive them around my city so they could at least see what it looked like. I know for a certainty this was the only time they took for themselves during their entire visit. They were twenty years old. They didn’t date or fall in love. And I didn’t know if they had any family left. The next time they came, I couldn’t even get them to eat a chicken pizza. To me, they were true revolutionaries.

  “You’re all tensed up.” Melissa massaged my hands, and I drifted off, thinking about the night we met and how she had held my hands in hers. She continued to press on points in my palms and fingers that sent the first warm, fragile waves of comfort through my stomach. I felt like baby Moses floating down the river about to be found. Melissa sat on the end of the bed and applied pressure to my feet. A sense of well-being flooded through me. With her strong hands, she pressed harder on my arches and toes until I was in ecstasy. I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I woke up the next morning.

  TRACK 43 Magazine

  That night as we got ready for bed, Melissa put on a PETA, anti-McDonald’s T-shirt, a picture of the skinned head of a cow that said “Want Fries with That?” And there was a sticker on it, faded by numerous washings but still clinging on, of an evil Ronald McDonald with a bloody knife and the words “Your unhappy meal is ready. McCruelty to go.”

  “Oh my God, Melissa,” I said, staring at the horrible picture. “That shirt is okay to sleep in when you’re alone, but Christ, I can’t fall asleep next to that.” I was wearing my tasteful Clash “I’m So Bored with the USA” T-shirt.

  Melissa pulled the shirt over her head, exchanging it for one of my old ACT UP T-shirts that said “Say It!!! / Women Get AIDS / ACT UP” in black letters. I’d started keeping my clothes in her bedroom. “I suppose you can tell it’s been a while since I’ve really slept with someone,” Melissa said a little self-consciously as she stood beside the bed.