Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  Releasing one side, I touched her face and gently brought it to mine. I looked into her eyes and whispered, “I don’t think you can handle me,” then kissed her softly, my lips and tongue an ABC easy glide against hers. Her fingers slipped from my shoulders to run through my hair as she responded to me, her stomach pressing into my ribs.

  “Hey, get a room!” someone called out, probably Cap, I thought, and various other catcalls followed. Again Trace lifted her mouth from mine, and she carefully stood up directly in front of me, sliding her body not half an inch from my nose. It would only have taken the slightest movement for me to catch her between my teeth.

  “Do you wanna take this outside?” she asked me, her voice all throaty challenge.

  Her smile was ironic, but the silent gray of her eyes had deepened, and they searched mine with an intensity that I knew was no joke. But still…that smile…and the message everyone got…I knew how to play this.

  “Nico, take my guitar home?” I asked him, and didn’t even glance his way when he agreed.

  When I stood I deliberately gripped her hips for leverage and let my breasts skim lightly against her on the way up. The sharp hiss of her breath as I did it made me smile. Finally, we were eye to eye, and I dropped my hands.

  “Fine, then.”

  She neatly stepped out from our almost-embrace and made way for me, and I strode to the door, stopping only when I got there. I faced her, mutely waiting. This was the last chance to back out and down, and the perfect opportunity for either of us to crush the other in front of everyone. Forget points; we’re talking burning scorecards here.

  Everyone in that room must have known this could go only one of two ways: we could either punch the fuck out of each other or fuck.

  If the room had been quiet before, it was now graveyard silent. It seemed like every eye was upon us as Trace sauntered over, all liquid curves and predatory grace. I held out a hand for the last few steps, and when she grasped it, she reached up with her free one and drew me in for a bloody, searing kiss.

  This time, the room erupted with cheers, and when we broke off that kiss, I glanced around to see everyone on their feet, even Nico, Stephie, and Jerkster. Nico’s expression was inscrutable, Stephie gave me a small grin, and Jerkster, well, he held his beer up in a congratulatory toast.

  The sharp sound of glass being struck rang out across the crowd, and we all saw Cap putting down the cutlery he had just used to ring his glass with.

  “Nina, Trace,” he began, his tone somber, but his eyes twinkling, “go. Go and either discover that it’s destiny or…” and he paused dramatically, then grinned at the rest of the room before focusing on us again, “get it over with, so the rest of us can get some peace!”

  Everyone laughed, and somewhere, almost under the table, I heard Van’s muffled, “Hear, hear!”

  Trace rolled her eyes and turned away, ready to leave, but I couldn’t just let it go yet. “Fuck you!” I mouthed to him with a slight grin, then followed Trace to the door.

  “Ah, ah!” I heard Cap call out to our backs as we made our way outside. “That’s not who you’re fucking!”

  Not even half a step past the door, Trace pounced. It was all tongues and hands, aching, grinding need and nipples hard enough to hurt—and that was the way back home. My next conscious moment, I found myself in Trace’s bed, and as her lips and tongue tortured me on their way to the waistband of my button-fly jeans, I groaned when she reached the top one.

  “God, I want you, Nina,” she stopped a moment to tell me, and her hand splayed out against my belly. She ripped the first button open with her teeth. “I want you so fucking bad,” she whispered into that first opening. Then one by one, she released the rest of the brass buttons—her lips, teeth, and tongue sending waves of sensation that crashed through me.

  When Trace opened the last button and discovered that I wore no underwear, she planted heated kisses at the V where the fly ended. I squirmed lightly under her, and as she reached to jerk the jeans off, I sat up and blindly reached for her face, pulling her up for another deep kiss. We lay back down together, and while her hands continued to push my jeans off, my hands reached for her waist to help her remove hers.

  Between the pushing and the pulling we somehow finally managed to get everything removed, and as I lay between her legs, I gently stroked the high sharp planes of her cheeks, the luxurious length of her neck, and the sharp cut of her shoulders. She was so achingly beautiful, I wanted to cry from the pain of it, because I was touching her skin and I wanted to touch her heart.

  Some of this must have translated through from my fingertips to her, because that’s when she asked me what I wanted, and as I closed my eyes and enjoyed the trail of fire that Trace blazed down me, an image of sunset over the desert formed behind my eyes.

  Her lips came softly to the top junction between my leg, and my desire and I exhaled a long, low breath as she pressed her lips first to one side, then the other.

  My whole body ached with a deep, wrenching need, and I wanted this—I wanted Trace, and here she was and I was, together, in this intimate space, and I certainly thought that I was ready when she pressed her lips against that desperate ache. I groaned and arched my back a bit as her tongue slipped between my folds and teased my clit lightly.

  With a slight tilt of her jaw, Trace stroked me with her lower lip from right below my opening to the base of my clit, and she pulled her head back a moment before bringing it back down and sucking my clit between her lips, hard.

  That felt really nice, truly, but somehow not as intense as the anticipation had been. Maybe it was positional, so I sat up on my elbows and flexed my legs, raising my knees. That did help somewhat, and Trace wrapped her arms around my thighs, using her hands to spread me as her hair draped over my legs. I had a flash of memory—of the last time I’d been in that room, of the last time I’d seen her over the edge of that bed.

  Van. Fucking Van. Mother. Fucking. Van. I shoved that thought down as hard as I could.

  Oh, but this wasn’t working, and as much as I knew that I should just relax and enjoy this, and I really, really wanted, no, I needed to get off, I was slipping out of that desire-induced haze and feeling less and less physically, and more and more acutely conscious of the blue sheets curled under me and how quiet the room was, of the light coming through the window to tell me the sun was coming up, and of the fact that I was naked with a beautiful woman’s head between my thighs, lips riding my pussy, and I was feeling absolutely nothing, not physically, not emotionally—just a dull gray weight that seemed to spread through my chest. I knew two things: I was the desert, and the desert was cold.

  Finally, I reached down and gently lifted Trace’s face away from me. “Trace…” I spoke into the silence that filled the early morning air.

  Her gray eyes filled with concern as they met mine. “Are you okay? Something wrong? I really want to…” She trailed off as I shook my head negatively.

  Yeah, something was wrong, probably with me and my retarded body, I thought wryly to myself, but I was careful to keep both my expression and my voice gentle, because her expression was so vulnerable, so childlike. I didn’t want to hurt her. “No, I’m fine.” I smiled. “Just, come here,” I invited her, indicating that she lie either on top of or next to me.

  Trace slid up my body and settled next to me, one leg still between mine. I put my arms around her and cradled her head to my shoulder, then leaned back against the pillows. We snuggled for a moment, and I kissed her forehead. All I could think of was Van fucking her.

  She raised her eyes to mine a moment, then shifted her hips so that she lay between my legs again. Trace wrapped her arms around my ribs and kissed my chest, over my heart. “I really want to make you come,” she murmured, pressing her lips against me again.

  I ran my fingers through her hair and lovingly stroked her shoulder. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

  She slid a hand down and cupped my pussy. “Well, what if we…” sh
e asked me with a sexy grin as she began to press her palm against me.

  I put my hand over hers to still it. “It’s not, it’s just…” I pulled her in for a kiss, hoping to distract her or something, I’m not sure what. We broke for a moment.

  “I think I drank too much,” I lied. “Just stay with me.”

  I thought of all the girls I’d had and the way they made me feel. I’d really, really want to, then whammo! Nothing. But I always made sure they came. Maybe, just maybe, the difference here was that Trace was drunk. I’d wanted this so much, but I’d wanted it clear and memorable, not accompanied by a headache and a hangover. But right now, it wasn’t Trace’s fault, no matter what. For the record, I have to say that from the moment Trace had grabbed my chair, I was stone-cold sober.

  “C’mere.” I smiled at her and pulled her up over me so that her legs tangled with mine. “Now let’s,” I licked her neck and flipped her over, “just not worry about this…” And I lightly nipped and licked a path down her chest as our hips ground against each other.

  Frankly, Trace was way too drunk, and while it became an incredibly sensual makeout session (and I think I still have scars from it on my back—somewhere), eventually, every caress became slower, and her eyes stayed shut a bit longer. Finally, she snuggled under me and fell asleep, but not before turning one last time. She nuzzled the space between my breasts.

  “You’ve got perfect breasts,” she breathed with sleepy warmth against my nipple before she pulled it lightly between her lips, teasing the peak with her tongue.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and kissed her ear. “Shush now…sleep,” I said, stroking her shoulders and carefully removing myself from her kiss. Her lips were soft on my breast once more, then, with a little sigh, she rolled over, tucking her body into mine.

  We lay like that for a while and I listened to her breathe, the cadence soft and easy as it always was when she slept in my arms. I slowed my own breath and tried to sleep, but I was now overtired, overwired, and overwrought.

  Finally, when I knew that Trace was fully asleep, I left my arm under her neck as I rolled onto my back, tucking her against my side so she wouldn’t get cold.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d wanted, really wanted, sex, but somewhere, somehow, I’d lost the desire. It was frustrating, touching and not being able to be touched, and although I usually was able to avoid the awkwardness, there were times, like tonight, where if Trace had been more sober, it would have just gotten stressful. I mean, what person, except for the occasional callous asshole, isn’t going to have their feelings hurt if the person who just made them come can’t reciprocate? I know it would bother me if I was on the other end. But I couldn’t fake it, either, so I just avoided it altogether when I could and made it up to myself later.

  But it didn’t make sense. I mean it couldn’t be biological, because, hell, on occasions, things did work—okay, not as well as they worked by myself, but still, both those things proved that it had to be something other than physical. Not that technique doesn’t count, of course, but still…

  Candace was gone, and even though we’d promised to keep in touch, we weren’t anything more than friends. Trace was right here, and even though it could have been so much more, it was never going to be. Dammit. Had we both been sober this could have potentially been something amazingly beautiful. And no matter who it was with, if I wasn’t doing it for myself, I wasn’t getting off. Not that I didn’t enjoy and get really turned on, because I did, but it was like no matter what anyone did, they just couldn’t touch me.

  And if it wasn’t them—and I didn’t think it was—then it was definitely me. And if it wasn’t biological, then maybe it was something else. Maybe Trace couldn’t deal with being gay—maybe she needed to get drunk and play all these games just to get to a place where she didn’t feel so afraid. Oh, hell, maybe I just had to get my head together; maybe I was just coming (no pun intended) from a different place. If it hadn’t been for the band, I wouldn’t have done anything even remotely beneficial for myself for the last several weeks. I’d been drinking too much, I’d been fucking around too much, and nothing felt good. I was disgusted with myself. Okay, then. I had made a decision.

  I sighed and quietly slipped my arm out from under Trace and got out of bed, careful to tuck the blankets around her. She might be disappointed, but she wouldn’t be terribly surprised if I wasn’t there when she woke. Plenty of times I’d left her place early to go for a run before she opened her eyes. Usually, she’d meet me later upstairs and we’d eat together. But not this morning, I thought with slight regret as I dressed in the early morning light.

  Maybe it was all in my head, and maybe it was my environment. Maybe there was nothing wrong at all, and this was just not the right place for me. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, I thought wryly.

  I watched Trace sleep for a long moment, her lips a perfect bruise in her pale face, soft and peaceful in the morning sun.

  Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, I leaned over and kissed them. Trace stirred. “Love you, Nina,” she mumbled sleepily and kissed me in return, then settled back into sleep.

  Stunned, I merely stood and stared a moment. “Love you too, Trace,” I finally whispered back and noticed that my voice sounded thick and harsh. Dammit. I was crying. About Trace. Again. I let the tears fall as I padded to the door, and as I stood in the frame, I looked back at her sleeping form.

  “Bye,” I whispered in that same choked voice, and I walked out, quietly closing the door behind me and careful not to make any noise as I exited her apartment.

  I had come to two conclusions: I had to leave. I just really couldn’t take it anymore—not Trace, not Jackie, not even Cap, even though he was well meaning when he wasn’t horny. I had to get away from all of these places and these people and find out who I was, because I didn’t like the person I was being.

  And the other thing? I wasn’t going to even so much as kiss another human being unless the words right before it were “I love you.”

  That was it. No heavy making out, no crazy lines and wild sex with what amounted to friendly strangers. Dates. I was going on dates like a normal person, and if I liked them, there’d be another, and if there wasn’t, well, hopefully I would have spent time with someone interesting. I’d know the right person when I met them, I figured as I walked through the corridor.

  Instead of climbing the stairs to my apartment, I let my feet lead me down. I meant it. I was going to Jerry’s Pancake Place to pick up the newspaper and check out the adverts for, well, if not an apartment, then at least a room.

  I fumbled in a pocket and found my cigarettes, then lit one as I went through the door, closing it behind me. What if there isn’t anyone for you, my brain asked me; what if you end up alone?

  I pondered that possibility as I trudged down the block I usually ran down. The answer was simple. There was a difference between lonely and alone, and if I never met “my match,” well, I liked my own company well enough. And with all the music and art I had to constantly work on, I’d never have time to be lonely.

  Okay, my brain countered, what about sex? What about it? I asked back. I mean, it’s not as if I enjoyed it too much. Okay, I loved the thrill of the chase and enjoyed nothing better than reveling in the ability to create all those delicious gasps and moans, feeling when a woman was so ready to—okay. Stop there. Yes, I enjoyed that when it was happening, but still, it left me empty. Besides, I told my brain as we entered Jerry’s Pancake Place, it’s not as if I didn’t still have my favorite sexual partner—and I had never let myself down.

  No, we, meaning my brain and I, were going to get out of there, focus on art and music and the things that were important. It would be fuckin’ nice if I took some time somewhere and went to my favorite comic book store, Universe, and picked up the Love and Rockets that I had fallen so far behind in. It was time to get some clarity. Fuck it. I was hungry, and after paying for the paper, I sat down and ordered breakfast—cream of whe
at with a soft-boiled egg on the side.

  If I was never going to feel something, that special pull, then I wasn’t going to settle for something else, either, I thought as I spread the classifieds before me. I wasn’t going to waste my life pining for things that wouldn’t happen, and I was going to take some responsibility for who I wanted to be—someone honest and real. If I wasn’t going to settle for less in myself, I wouldn’t settle for less in someone else, either.

  I circled a couple of likely candidates for a place as my food arrived, and as I ate in silence, I studied the want ads, too. Oh, hell, maybe I’d just change everything while I was at it. Why not, right?

  I found a few things that seemed likely. As soon as I was done with eating, I would go to my apartment, shower, dress, and wake Nico. Maybe he’d look at a few of these places with me, I thought; in fact, maybe we could do that, then visit our parents and baby sister for a little while. Heck, now that we were finally all talking to one another again, it might even be ABC nice.

  I smiled as I got myself together and went to the counter to pay. I counted my change and, paper clutched under my arm, took a moment to just feel the air around me when I stepped back outside. Yep, I agreed as I smiled back to the brightly shining sun, today’s a brand-new day.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Just Add Water

  Somebody tell me where to find the things I had before

  I never asked for nothing much but now I’m needing more

  Than a slap on the back or a kick in the teeth

  and a look that says that I should go

  Now I’m dressing in black and I’m dragging my feet

  and I feel like I’ve got nothing to show

  “Just Add Water”—Life Underwater

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Nico did come along with me to check out a couple of places, though he didn’t say much. He would look around and nod judiciously. I agreed.

  Nothing knocked me out either until I finally found it—a huge one-room studio not too far from High Rock Park, a nature preserve right in the middle of Staten Island. It wasn’t right off the park, but only a few blocks away—perfect for my morning runs—while the yard in the back had plenty of room to work out in—it was time to revisit my martial arts training. Heck, the room was large, especially compared to the closet I’d lived in.