Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  “Kid, there’s a couple waiting in the corner,” she’d order. Like, duh, I was already getting their drinks. Or, “Hey, kid, grab a broom, will ya?” Uh, just finished with that.

  It was constant, and if it wasn’t about work, it was about something else. “Kid like you should be going crazy—playing the field like tomorrow won’t ever come,” she told me seriously one day when she caught me pocketing a phone number with a tip without a second glance.

  “Not my thing.” I smiled over my shoulder as I walked my tray to the bar.

  I worked the rest of the night, like I did the others—fetching drinks, cleaning, making chitchat and correct change. When we’d closed and the lights had come on for the cleanup, Jen approached me again.

  “Is it ’cuz you’re small town, or is it ’cuz you’re a virgin?” Jen asked me as I sat at the now-emptied and shiny clean bar, sipping a Coke and waiting for Grace to come up front with tonight’s pay. The few patrons that remained—all half dozen or so—were well-known regulars either waiting to meet someone, hooking up with someone from the staff, or just keeping us company, I guess. I suspected one or two of them had romantic inclinations toward Grace.

  “What?” I asked casually, not rising to Jen’s bait. I ABC figured that as long as I kept perfectly calm and didn’t react to anything Jen said, maybe she’d eventually back off. So far my strategy hadn’t really worked, but it was better than losing my temper.

  I beat the shit out of the trees in the yard when I got home.

  But still…she was the boss when Dee Dee wasn’t around—and that was a lot, because it seems that managing a bar has a lot more to do with schedules and paperwork than it does with bartending.

  “Your attitude,” Jen answered, skipping snideness for directness this time. “Are you just really that provincial?”

  I sipped my soda quietly as I considered how to answer, then put the glass down carefully. “What are you talking about? What attitude? And secondly, how do you know I’m not racking ’em up on the side?” I stared into those dark eyes.

  Jen’s lip curled into a sneer. “Kid, I had to rip them off of you tonight, and you didn’t even respond. And it’s not the first time that happened, either. You get numbers shoved at you left and right, and you don’t even glance at them. You just smile thanks and stick ’em in your pocket. What’s wrong with you?” She finally got to her burning question. “Are you deformed or something?”

  Well, it wasn’t snide, but it was still rude. I raised an unamused eyebrow.

  Jen did have a point. Women stuck money in my bra, their numbers written on the bills. When I brought them their drinks, they’d ask if I could give them a cherry, then tied cherry stems into knots with their tongues and smiled sweetly as they handed them to me. They brought me cappuccinos and pizza; one even made me a sweater, and another gave me a leather jacket I still have. One called me edible, and another asked what afternoon she could pencil me in for a session of cunning linguistics—and yes, I know what that means.

  The night before, some guy (an occasional guy came in. They were either gay or vouched for by the women they were with) offered to pay me if I would take his young friend to a prepaid hotel room and help her celebrate her twenty-first birthday—by “making her a woman.” These women were pretty, smart, charming. They were sexy, bold, creative. Some of them were aggressive, and some of them were shy, and through it all, I smiled, I thanked them for the cappuccino, I listened politely—and I said no. Every time.

  For those that got a little too aggressive for my taste, there was Jen. And in all honesty, it didn’t matter how crowded the place got—and sometimes there was barely breathing room. All I had to do was turn my head and lift my chin, and in seconds, I’d receive an apology—or there’d be room for one more on the dance floor.

  Earlier this particular evening a group of women were celebrating something, I dunno what—could’ve been a softball game, could have been a corporate merger, the clientele was so diverse—and I’d had to take two trays of drinks to the table they’d found in the corner. While I was holding the trays, about four of them tried to strip me—and I mean strip ABC Page 107me.

  I didn’t know what to do, and when I looked around for Jen to call her, I just made eye contact and she was there in less than half a second flat. Good thing, too, because my shirt was already open to the waist, and the first button of my jeans had gotten undone.

  “I mean, nothing fazes you. You know, one day when you’re older, you’re gonna look back at this time and wish you’d done something with it.” Jen nodded at me solemnly. “They’re not always gonna throw it at you like that.”

  I toyed with the edge of my glass. It’s not like she was saying anything I hadn’t thought before; I just didn’t believe that shit anymore. Besides, how did you explain to someone that you were already, in your heart of hearts, sick to death of the whole, empty, ugly thing?

  None of it meant anything. At the Red Spot, the women had wanted me because I was the DJ—no other reason. After the incident with Candace and some others, they’d wanted me because they “knew” I’d make them come. Hell, women and girls, even straight ones, would accost me in the club and try to kiss me. I knew which were straight, though. The gay girls would try to kiss me wherever; the straight ones tried to steal my kisses in the bathroom.

  Me, well, I was no innocent. Sometimes I’d taken someone who kissed me into the booth to make out and dance with them there, sometimes two. More than several nights I’d left the booth and prowled the crowd, so restless, so high on that feeling that rides right under the skin through the blood, that unquenchable thirst, that I took the maximum the booth could hold—three—back with me.

  I hadn’t cared who they were or who they were with—it didn’t matter. For as long as I wanted, they were mine. Any of them. All I’d had to do was walk up, smile, and nod toward the booth. They knew what to do, they always did.

  Usually a party in the booth had meant just that, a party. We’d make out, we’d dance, and the girls drank for free. It was sensual more than sexual, and I’d sent more than one back to her boyfriend or girlfriend (but usually a boyfriend—the girlfriend usually came in too) more than ready for whatever they were going to do next.

  Unless we were dancing or kissing, though, I let no one touch me. I fucked some of them, and on at least two occasions I’d fucked one while making out with another. No one ever, ever, got invited back a second time. My nights had gotten more and more crowded; the dancers themselves took on a new edge. I no longer wore black most of the time—I wore it all the time, and I’d earned it.

  Jen’s voice broke in over my thoughts. “Really, Nina. One day, you’re going to be old and alone and not as pretty, I mean, as young as you are now. You should just get out there and enjoy it, you know? Rack up the points while you can.”

  Ah, points. There it was again, the concept that got me into so much trouble in the first place. I smiled at Jen, trying not to chuckle. She was being sincere, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Besides, this was the ABC first time she’d ever spoken to me without her customary growl or glare, and I didn’t want to spoil the moment.

  But it was fucking ironic. I mean, everyone put so much pressure on getting laid. Why? There had to be something more to being “young, dumb, and full of cum,” as Cap described everyone under thirty. Wasn’t there? Something more, I mean.

  And I was surprised, too. I mean, okay, I knew straight guys had to deal with that sort of pressure from their peers all the time; I could see that with Nico and the other guys I knew. But I was shocked to experience the same sort of pressure from women, I mean, from gay women. Wasn’t that the sort of thing every woman pretty much complained about? How all anyone wanted to do was to fuck ’em? Part of the negative aspect of patriarchal culture or some such stuff? So why repeat the pattern? And why, why of all people, pick on me?

  Besides, what the hell did Jen know about me anyway? She had no idea of who I was or what I’d done. I mean, for
fuck’s sake, one night while I was DJing, during the beginning of a really hot tune, I’d descended from the skybox to hunt—that was what it was, essentially. In seconds, I found the right girl. This night had brought me a blonde with an attitude I liked, and as I stepped up to her, a familiar voice spoke over my shoulder.

  “Trace always said you were really cute,” said Van. What a fuck. But interesting, though, I noted, because he and Trace weren’t together; but he was with the girl I wanted.

  The last time I’d seen him had been a few weeks before—after Candace and before my first anonymous guest.

  In my mind’s eye, I could still see the quirk of his lips. “Don’t talk to me,” I told Van and laughed lightly, never taking my eyes from his dance partner, who smiled back a bit nervously. “Go wait by the booth.”

  I’ve no idea what had possessed me to order him like that, but whatever the reason, I wasn’t terribly surprised when he did it. I’d tracked him until he settled by the door, then returned my attention to the blonde before me. She wasn’t a girl, exactly, and she was a bit more than a young woman. Whatever she was, she was definitely beautiful, with lanky legs, and, as I said before, I liked the way she tossed her head. It was that simple.

  “I’m Nina,” I smiled and introduced myself, although I knew it wasn’t necessary. “Join me for a drink.” It wasn’t a question; we both knew the answer.

  “Simone,” she answered with a coy look and licked her lips. “I’d love to.”

  Yes, this was going to be a great night, I’d thought as I took her hand and led her back to the skybox. I didn’t even look at Van, and they both followed me in.

  “Lock it,” I ordered casually over my shoulder as I strolled to the request window and signaled for Andra. I glanced down at my meters as I passed; I was good for time.

  “What would you like to drink?” I asked Simone cordially.

  “Corona. Corona with—”

  “—with lime,” I finished for her with another smile, and the one she reciprocated with packed some serious sensuality.

  Van piped in. “Hey, I want—”

  I held up a hand to forestall him; I didn’t want to hear his voice if I could help it.

  “Tequila. Beer back, right?” I asked, finally looking at him and arching my brow.

  Van seemed impressed that I knew that as I returned to the window.

  Andra had arrived and I told her what we needed. “Oh, and the usual for me.” I grinned at her. She smiled and nodded, then eased back through the crowd.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” I invited both of them. “I’ve got to set a few times.”

  At my tables, I checked my mix, my mike, and my headphones. As I slipped them over my head, I asked Simone, “Any special requests?”

  She and Van had made themselves at home along the back bench, but at that, she stood up. “Only if you’ll dance with me,” she replied, her voice throaty and low.

  “Of course.” I laughed lightly, because that was the point, because it was part of the plan, and she was eager to play my game. “What will it be?”

  She told me, and I programmed my next set. By the time I was done, the drinks had arrived and I tossed mine down—a shot of scotch followed by a shot of blackberry brandy. If I was going to poison my liver, I didn’t want all the extra calories that a mixed drink would provide. In fact, it was a good thing I didn’t like beer—turns out that just one serving has a full pound of them.

  Everything and everyone set, I’d danced with Simone, and Van danced behind her. She was a good dancer, and when the timing was right, I kissed her, a thorough, sensual kiss that made promises I just might keep—tonight. Simone’s hands clutched at my waist as mine tickled, traveled, and teased up her spine. With my tongue I drew delicate lines into the hollow of her throat that I knew, from the deep sound that rumbled beneath and through my lips, she enjoyed.

  When Van reached forward, I slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t touch me,” I told him with a deadly smile over Simone’s ABC shoulder. “You don’t talk to me, and you don’t touch me.”

  “Sorry,” he’d muttered and looked away, over at the dancing crowd.

  “Now…where were we?” I asked Simone as her hips swayed dangerously close to mine, but I held them tightly, less than an inch away from me, building, playing, delaying the inevitable. “Oh, I remember.” I smiled. “Right about here,” and I returned my lips to her neck.

  By design rather than by accident we’d ended up with Van on the back bench and Simone between us. Van spread his legs, and Simone nestled between his thighs, her ass grinding against his denim-covered cock as we continued to dance, a dance that was more dry fuck than music. When Van groaned, I had to really force myself not to think about the last time I’d seen him.

  I’d nibbled on her lip and let my fingertips trail along her thighs until I reached her cunt. What a nice surprise, I thought as she tossed her head and leaned back against Van, clutching his thighs. No underwear and shaved. She spread her legs for me, and I slid my fingers between her warm, wet lips, enjoying her silkiness. She groaned, and I licked the column of her neck.

  “God…” Van muttered, his hips grinding behind her.

  “If you’re not quiet, I’ll stop,” I warned him as I gently played in Simone’s waiting cunt, teasing the emptiness that waited for me to fill it, “and if I hear you come, I swear to heaven, I’ll slap you.”

  I meant it, every word of it, but far from upsetting him, my words had seemed to excite him more, and he visibly shuddered. Good. If I had to watch, then he had to witness.

  “Shh, Van,” Simone warned, and she swayed a bit against the constant play of my fingers, her knees giving momentarily before she righted herself.

  “Good,” I’d smiled sweetly, “we have an understanding.” I took a moment’s pity on him. “Here,” I told him, grabbing one of his hands that had clutched the bench, “hold this.” I took his hand and put it on Simone’s skirt, lifting it to her waist. He got the idea and did the same with his other free hand. She was naked from the waist down, and I was right—she was shaved, except for a small tuft at the top.

  Simone caught my eye and I watched her, still teasing, until we both looked down to see what my fingers had found—a small barbell above the base of her clit. I couldn’t let that go.

  “What do we have here,” I commented as I knelt between her legs. Her shorn pussy looked vulnerable, even more so with the metal running through it. I glanced up to see Van’s fingers had gone almost white with the strength of his hold and control.

  I flicked the barbell with my tongue and Simone moaned heartily, tossing her head back onto Van’s shoulder. He leaned back for better ABC balance and pulled her with him. His hard cock now pressed up between her ass cheeks.

  I trailed my tongue along her length a few times, from her opening to her clit. She tasted like pineapple, I thought, as I slid my tongue inside her. Her hips jumped, and I could swear I could hear her mutter “Oh yeah,” as she fucked my face.

  I gently pressed against Van’s balls, rubbing lightly with my thumb along the denim as it got damp from Simone’s pussy. Then I placed the very edges of two fingers against her opening, slick with invitation, and played my tongue rapidly against her clit.

  Two things went through my head, not necessarily at the same time: I could have done anything I wanted, anything, to Van. He had given me complete control, and I liked that a lot, too much. The other was God, but she was ready, more than ready, and as I teased a third finger there, I stood and replaced my tongue with my thumb.

  Van had burrowed his face into her neck, and with the same hand that had gently stroked his balls, I took his cheek in my palm and pushed his head firmly back against the wall as I leaned in to replace him. Pressing my thumb firmly on Simone’s beautifully hard clit, I slid my fingers ever so slightly inside her. Her cunt was hot.

  Simone rubbed her cheek against my neck, then blindly lifted her lips to mine. I kissed her fully, deeply, and
let her savor the taste of her wanting cunt in my mouth.

  Raising my lips to her ear, I raked it lightly with my teeth. “Are you ready?” I whispered.

  “God…yes,” she groaned, her hips moving in synch with my thumb.

  “Are you sure?” I teased mildly, but sincerely. She could have backed out if she’d wanted, but I was pretty sure she wouldn’t.

  “Yes,” she hissed at me, breathless, and I slowly thrust all three fingers into her waiting hole, then just as slowly eased out again, letting her pussy adjust, feeling the length of it.

  “Oh…” she sighed as I pushed slowly within her, a smooth back and forth. Two fingers would have been okay, but three meant she was tight around me—and I wanted her to really enjoy this, and I wanted Van to know just how much. I could feel him grit his teeth under my hand, and his body gave a slight jerk, which shoved her pussy firmly on my fingers.

  I finally released Van’s head and buried my fingers in her hair, drawing her face again to mine to kiss her once more before I fucked her earnestly, her cunt sucking on my fingers as I moved inside her, her hips adding to the motion. She tucked her face into my neck again, and I held her firmly as her pussy drew me into her again and again.

  Finally, she tensed and bit my shoulder as she came, a soft sound ABC issuing from her throat. I let her relax against me as I carefully withdrew, then stroked her head where she rested it on my shoulder.

  “I’ve got you, you’re okay,” I whispered into her ear, and she sighed.

  I finally looked at Van. His head lay against the wall, his eyes closed. His face seemed soft and vulnerable, and I noticed a dark stain on his lips. I realized he must have bitten them until they’d bled to keep quiet.

  Fuck the points. I’d sunk his battleship and burned his board.

  “Good boy.” I smiled at him, but I didn’t mean it. Why did he do that? Why give anyone so much power over you? Nothing could possibly be worth that, could it? And I’d enjoyed it, all of it, not only my own violence, but most especially Van’s complete submission, which frankly left me pretty disgusted with myself. I’d felt like the biggest piece of shit.