Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  I waved to catch her attention as I reached the door and blew her a kiss. This might not have been the world’s happiest moment, but no matter who liked it or not, Francesca DiTomassa and Nina Boyd had something going. Besides, I loved her and didn’t want her to think I’d forgotten.

  She gave me a sweet and sad smile, then blew me a kiss in return. I spent a moment miming that it had landed on my cheek, caught it, and put it down my shirt, rubbing it over my heart. Fran grinned, and I sent her another one before I left.

  Once in the kitchen, I forgot all about getting some water. I sat at the table and simply stared out the window where it overlooked the fire escape as I smoked. Finally, I muscled up the frame and sat on the ledge, just staring at the sky, watching my smoke float into it. The metal from the fire escape was a little too cold on my bare feet, so I tucked them up into the frame where I’d wedged myself—back against one side, feet on the other.

  I thought of absolutely nothing, and I don’t know how many cigarettes I smoked before Fran came into the room. She’d put on my shirt, the one I’d been going to wear to the show, over a pair of sleep shorts.

  “Do you want to talk with her?”

  I took a deep drag, then exhaled. “No,” I said and shook my head, “I don’t. She could have found me months ago.” I took another deep drag and exhaled slowly before I faced her. “You didn’t tell me you were going to California.”

  Fran eyed me, a bit warily I thought. She didn’t have to worry—I wasn’t going to bite.

  “I was going to tell you, before the phone rang.” She walked over and put a hand on my shoulder.

  I blew the rest of the smoke out the window, then put my free arm around her waist, swinging my legs back in and onto the floor. Fran took the cigarette from my hand and took a drag while I put my other arm around her, burying my head against her ribs.

  “Don’t go,” I asked quietly. “Stay with me or,” and as it occurred to me, I thought it was a brilliant idea, “delay a few days and I’ll go with you.”

  Fran gave a light laugh under her breath as she stroked through my hair and rubbed the back of my neck.

  “I have to,” she answered just as solemnly. “It’s the only time I can, where I’m…it has to be now.”

  “Why?” I asked, kissing her nipple through the shirt. I accidentally tore the button when I reached for the curve of her breast. “Why now?”

  Her fingertips strayed from my neck and began to dig into my shoulder as I breathed across her hardening nipple.

  “Because…” she sighed as I teased that hardened end with my teeth. “There are some cycles you can’t break…just like that…” She pressed my head against her while I massaged her beautifully firm ass with one hand. The other began making the journey where I knew it would please us both most.

  When I reached the junction of her thigh and slipped beneath the leg of the shorts she was wearing, I smiled because they had been a gift from me.

  “Don’t…don’t you want to talk about it?” Fran gasped as I pressed along the tendon, then ran my thumb along the groove.

  I looked up at her finally, to see her undoubtedly trying to be rational, though her eyes were half hooded with desire. “No,” I told her, my breath ragged with want, the need to touch her, “I just want you.”

  “She didn’t know…Candace didn’t tell her.”

  I heard her words, but they had no meaning, although some part of my brain realized that Candace had lied—to all of us; she’d known from the beginning exactly who I was. But right now, it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all. Fran, my glorious Kitt, was before me, and the scent of her desire was burning through my mind. All I wanted to do was make her call my name, her voice a trumpet to the sky when she did.

  “I don’t care,” I told her as my fingers grazed her cleft. God, she was wet and she was mine. “Kiss me,” I demanded, and she did, her mouth perfectly sensual, demanding, against mine.

  I slid my fingers between her folds and glided along her ache, enjoying the moan that sang from her lips as I focused long strokes on her clit. My other hand had strayed from her delicious ass, and I pressed my fingers, gently insistent, into her waiting cunt.

  Fran gasped and swayed, trapped between my arms and hands. I guided her to me, onto my lap.

  “God, baby!” I choked out when her pussy encased my fingers and she threw her arms around me. She raised herself off me only to shift her hips a bit, because when she sat back down, she shoved me deep inside of her. Her face glowed and her eyes were both tender and fierce as she grabbed my shoulders.

  “Kitt, baby, baby Kitt…you are so beautiful…just so fucking beautiful,” I whispered into her ear because it was true, so true. I burned with the vision of her, lived and died with her breathless sighs, and I wanted more—more of her. I teased another finger by her cunt, feeling the other ones fly into her while my other hand lavished attention on her hard, hard clit.

  “God yes, please…just…please…” she gasped as I began to slide that third finger inside her.

  Ohgodohgodohgod I was going to die I was going to come—her pussy was so hot and tight, and she was so fucking amazing.

  “Is this what you need, baby, is this what you want?” I breathed out as she pushed herself onto me again, and I was so deep inside her I could feel her womb, its hard prominence pressing against the back of my fingers. She rubbed her face against mine.

  “Yes…” she hissed in that satisfied my-cunt-is-full voice as she rode me, her body a sensual wave, her pussy gliding off my ABC fingers. “Just…God,” she groaned aloud when I was sheathed in her again. I began to thrust into her—shorter thrusts, deeper thrusts, loving her, wanting her, needing her inside me, under my skin like bones, in my cunt like God.

  “Just what, baby?” I asked as she buried her head in my shoulder.

  “Don’t stop,” she groaned into my neck, “don’t fucking stop.”

  Her words set me free and my body jolted with the feeling. I began to fuck her, really and truly fuck her with everything I had—my heart, my mind, I poured my soul out into her cunt through my fingers.

  “I won’t,” I swore wildly as her pussy gripped me tighter. God, her clit was so hard and so big I wanted it in my mouth, between my lips, under my tongue.

  “I won’t stop because you’re fuckin’ mine,” I told her, my words coming out in harsh breaths. They weren’t the right words, but they were the only ones I had. I realized then and there that I’d never had the right ones, never would. How could I say thank you for bringing me back from the scary place I’d been? How could I tell her that her love for me made me safe, comfortable, easy in my skin, and capable of being more than I ever dreamed?

  Yes, she was leaving, I was gigging, and there was that fucking phone call to deal with, and I knew, the way you know when you’ve just slammed your knee, that in half a second that it is really going to hurt, that everything was going to change—everything always does. But this? This was ours—our time, our moment, and we belonged to it, to each other. I gave myself to it, I gave myself to her.

  “Mine,” I growled, nipping lightly at her breast with my teeth. I’d already ripped the button off the shirt. “Mine…” I whispered again and pressed my lips to her chest, sucking on the skin as her heart beat madly against my mouth.

  She crushed me to her, and I tasted blood as she swayed against me, her pussy so tight I was afraid I’d hurt her. I looked up, my chin pressed against her chest as I drank in the sight of her edges—the artful lines of her neck, her chin, the outline of my lion who cast golden eyes upon me, eyes full of love and passion, eyes that looked at me and showed me as beautiful.

  “Yours,” she gasped, and let go of me only to grab gentle hold of my face and kiss me desperately, as if she were dying and this was her last chance, her only chance, to let someone know she’d existed. “Yours…” she breathed again when she tore her mouth from mine, and she cradled my face in her hands, brushing her thumb over my chin, into the hollow be
low my lip. God, I was deep, so deep inside her pussy as those tight, slick walls held me, pulsed around me. Her eyes locked on mine, melting, incandescent, and I witnessed her transformation as she gave me everything she had, the rhythm of her heart beating in my hands.

  The aftershocks raced through her, and she shuddered with them as I eased my fingers away, first from her now-too-sensitive clit, and then from the welcome warmth of her pussy as she hugged me and rested ABC boneless, wordless, head tucked into my shoulder, cheek pressed against the beating vein in my neck.

  I let the tears stream down my face, overwhelmed as I was by the intensity of everything, the magnitude of the gift that was my Kitt, Francesca, Fran, and I eased us from the ledge, sliding down the wall until I sat on the floor with my back against it, with her on top of me. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her, rocking her as she cried with me.

  When through her tears she kissed me with hunger, pushing me back, forcing me down against the wall, I answered her need. When she reached for my pants I helped her open them.

  Words were cheap. I used the language I knew best as we lay down.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  London Calling

  If you don’t know what pain is—I can show you

  That’s the only way you let me know you

  Think it over drink it through then feel it once again

  Is this the only way that you can let me be your friend?…

  Take your mark, but think it over before you shoot me through

  This becomes the way that I will always think of you

  “Carry The Stone”—Life Underwater

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Fran left with the promise to call me after the gig and as soon as she knew when she’d be back. I didn’t press her. Besides, since she was in California, I assumed her trip had something to do with her past internship and perhaps she didn’t want to jinx it by discussing it.

  Neither one of us brought up that phone call—at all.

  In the few days left before the show, the band and I rehearsed, invited everyone we could think of—including my former roommates—and generally made ABC the most out of our nerves. In reality, we’d be fine. The music was good, our rehearsals were tight, and we’d already done a few “unplugged” gigs, so this was just the same thing, only pre-announced and a little louder, right? Yeah, I didn’t believe it, either.

  Six hours to showtime and we had to be there in two. I showered, put on the pants, and decided to fuck the shirt—I’d wear a jacket instead. I spent way too much time, even by my standards, on my hair, and when I got my guitar and my stuff, it was time to load out into the van when Jerkster honked. By the time we got to CB’s, we were all taking out our nerves in different ways, and me, well, I had nothing left in me emotionally but to focus on this—it was all I had.

  So when Trace showed up and started coming on to me, I let her. It was odd—I think I felt bad for her. She needed something, something so much that she couldn’t directly ask for it, couldn’t reach out for it without hurting whoever she was reaching to. Besides, no matter what she said or did, I knew nothing would happen—I had no feelings for her other than that strange sadness, and I was way too into Fran to do anything that might damage what we had.

  A moment of heart-throbbing fear grabbed me when we finally climbed the stage and I faced the audience after plugging in my guitar.

  I swallowed, hard, Steph and I shared a look, and I nodded to her—we were okay, we were going to be okay. Jerkster merely stared down at his bass, waiting for our cue.

  The sound guy announced us over the PA, the drummer clicked in the time, and just like that, we were off and into it.

  It was amazing, the way we worked together, the sound we created, the trip we brought the audience on with us—and they really were with us, every step of the way. As the set progressed we wore less and less—it’s hot under those lights! The encore demanded still more, and we played the same set again.

  By that point I’d lost the jacket and stripped down to my bra, Stephie had stripped down too, and Jerkster wore nothing but his kilt—and I mean nothing. I don’t know if anyone picked up his underwear. We all had the same silky sheen of sweat.

  The applause was very sweet when we were finally allowed to stop, and there was much back-slapping and congratulating as we disassembled our equipment and tromped off the stage.

  When Ronnie the soundman asked as if we wanted another gig, I said “sure,” then quietly packed my guitar and equipment on the side of the stage. It made me happy to see Nico when he came rushing over.

  After he was done congratulating me and I recovered from the nausea his enthusiastic bouncing hug had created, I extracted his promise to watch my stuff when I excused myself to the bar for some water.< /font>

  Trace came up to me out of nowhere, grabbed my head, and planted a solid smooch on my ABC lips.

  “That was great, baby, just great!” she breathed, and kissed me again. “Thanks, Trace, really. I’m just going to get some water. I’ll be back by the stage in a minute, okay?” I asked with a tired grin.

  She had grabbed my jacket from the stage and brought it with her. Putting it over my shoulders, she smiled and said, “You don’t want to catch a chill.” She must have had one of those rare moments of empathy, because she kissed my cheek again and walked away.

  By the time the bartender finally brought me my water, my head was blank and muzzy, and I had this sense, the uncomfortable anxiety of expectation, like waiting for the mail. Probably a holdover from the preshow nerves, I dismissively reflected.

  I was annoyed when someone came and sat next to me, invaded my personal space, and I shifted in my seat to ignore their presence, to regain some sense of privacy.

  I shrugged my shoulders into my jacket. Trace was right—I was starting to get a little cold.

  A beer slid across the bar, and money hit the worn wood surface. Dee Dee would flip over that, I thought, as I rubbed a finger over a spot where the varnish had come off.

  I caught the shine of silver as I sipped my water, and as my eyes insisted on focusing there, I realized it wasn’t coins at all, it was jewelry, and I stared, stared because I recognized the piece, stared because I knew who it belonged to.

  When I reached out to touch it, heat warmed my back.

  “I don’t like your girlfriend,” said a voice I couldn’t believe I was hearing. I closed my hand around that shiny little piece of silver, sat up straight, and carefully pushed my seat back.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I answered with a steadiness I didn’t feel. I put both hands against the edge of the bar to balance myself as I stood up.

  Her hair was long and slightly wavy, darker than I’d remembered and parted down the center, and she wore a long black coat, but I would have recognized her and those diamond-bright eyes anywhere, no matter what she wore.

  I folded her to me with an automatic response as immutable, unstoppable, and unquestionable as gravity. As I held my Samantha in my arms—and I couldn’t help but think of her as mine—I could feel my heartbeat strengthen: a long, low, solid thump that rang right through me.

  The phone call just scant days before, Candace, everything, everyone, disappeared in the complete surprise of her presence. “I can’t believe you’re here,” I whispered into her ear and pulled her even closer. Samantha squeezed ABC my shoulders, then buried her hands in my hair as she burrowed her warm cheek into my neck. I even forgot I was supposed to call her Ann.

  “I can’t believe you’re here, either,” she answered, her voice heavy and thick as it slid against my skin. Her breath caught and a tremor ran through her. Samantha was crying.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” I chided lightly and kissed the back of her head, “look harder next time.”

  Samantha chuckled through her tears and finally raised her eyes, those beautiful luminous eyes, to mine. I loosened my hold and rubbed my hands down the solid length of her arms.

  “You’re beautiful.” Samantha
smiled at me and held my hands. “You’re right, and you’re beautiful. What am I going to do about that?”

  “Well…” I drawled, swinging our joined hands lightly, “I still have some work,” I indicated the stage with a nod, “to do.”

  “Yes, of course,” Samantha dropped my hand and backed up a step, “don’t let me stop you. But after…” She trailed off, her eyes staring at me with something I’d never seen in anyone’s before. I can only describe it as hunger.

  “Yes?” I asked, uncertain before that gaze. She was here, and I was here, and this was just all so very strange. It felt good, but weird, too, because it felt so unreal. Were we really standing here, together, on the same planet, never mind the same continent? Maybe I’d passed out from stage fright and this was all some strange hallucination, and in reality Jerkster and Stephie were throwing water on me and trying to wake me.

  Samantha reached to touch my face, but didn’t. She dropped her hand like she’d been burned.

  “I don’t want to lose you again,” she said softly as her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, and I watched as her eyes grew overbright.

  I didn’t think about anything at all as I stepped back toward her and held out my hand, because if this was a dream, I was going with it.

  “Come home with me,” I told her simply.

  Oh, it was agonizingly slow, the tentative reach of fingers, the wait for the custom fit of her hand in mine, and when it finally happened I could almost hear the tumblers of some giant lock click exactly into place.

  “Really?”

  Acting on impulse, which seemed to be all I’d been doing for the last few hours, I leaned over and quickly kissed her cheek.

  “Truly,” I answered her, and smiled. That smile grew until it threatened to take my ears with it. “Okay then,” I said, maybe a little too brightly, “let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” And without waiting for an answer, I half dragged Samantha behind me toward the table where everyone sat before the stage.

  It might have only been twenty feet away, but it felt like twenty miles, and I was conscious with each step that the warm pressure in my hand was Samantha’s fingers in mine, and while part of me was jumping up and down for joy singing, “Sammy, my Sammy! Yay!” the rest of me wondered what in the hell I’d just gotten myself into.